Pride and Prejudice
Jane Austen
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Revision: C
Date: 01/12/08
Contents
Chapter 1
1
Chapter 2
5
Chapter 3
9
Chapter 4
17
Chapter 5
21
Chapter 6
25
Chapter 7
35
Chapter 8
43
Chapter 9
51
Chapter 10
59
Chapter 11
69
Chapter 12
75
Chapter 13
79
Chapter 14
87
i
ii
Chapter 15
93
Chapter 16
101
Chapter 17
113
Chapter 18
119
Chapter 19
137
Chapter 20
145
Chapter 21
151
Chapter 22
159
Chapter 23
167
Chapter 24
173
Chapter 25
181
Chapter 26
187
Chapter 27
197
Chapter 28
203
Chapter 29
209
Chapter 30
219
Chapter 31
225
Chapter 32
231
Chapter 33
237
iii
Chapter 34
245
Chapter 35
253
Chapter 36
267
Chapter 37
275
Chapter 38
281
Chapter 39
285
Chapter 40
291
Chapter 41
299
Chapter 42
309
Chapter 43
317
Chapter 44
335
Chapter 45
345
Chapter 46
353
Chapter 47
365
Chapter 48
381
Chapter 49
391
Chapter 50
401
Chapter 51
411
Chapter 52
419
iv
Chapter 53
433
Chapter 54
445
Chapter 55
451
Chapter 56
461
Chapter 57
473
Chapter 58
481
Chapter 59
491
Chapter 60
501
Chapter 61
507
Chapter 1
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that
a single man in possession of a good fortune,
must be in want of a wife.
However little known the feelings or views
of such a man may be on his first entering a
neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in
the minds of the surrounding families, that he
is considered the rightful property of some one
or other of their daughters.
“My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to
him one day, “have you heard that Netherfield
Park is let at last?”
Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.
“But it is,” returned she; “for Mrs. Long has
just been here, and she told me all about it.”
Mr. Bennet made no answer.
“Do you not want to know who has taken
it?” cried his wife impatiently.
“You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”
This was invitation enough.
“Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long
says that Netherfield is taken by a young man
of large fortune from the north of England;
that he came down on Monday in a chaise and
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Pride and Prejudice
four to see the place, and was so much delighted with it, that he agreed with Mr. Morris
immediately; that he is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are
to be in the house by the end of next week.”
“What is his name?”
“Bingley.”
“Is he married or single?”
“Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A single
man of large fortune; four or five thousand a
year. What a fine thing for our girls!”
“How so? How can it affect them?”
“My dear Mr. Bennet,” replied his wife,
“how can you be so tiresome! You must know
that I am thinking of his marrying one of
them.”
“Is that his design in settling here?”
“Design! Nonsense, how can you talk so!
But it is very likely that he may fall in love
with one of them, and therefore you must visit
him as soon as he comes.”
“I see no occasion for that. You and the
girls may go, or you may send them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for
as you are as handsome as any of them, Mr.
Bingley may like you the best of the party.”
“My dear, you flatter me. I certainly have
had my share of beauty, but I do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now. When
a woman has five grown-up daughters, she
ought to give over thinking of her own beauty.”
“In such cases, a woman has not often
much beauty to think of.”
“But, my dear, you must indeed go and see
Mr. Bingley when he comes into the neigh-
Chapter 1
3
bourhood.”
“It is more than I engage for, I assure you.”
“But consider your daughters. Only think
what an establishment it would be for one of
them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to go, merely on that account, for in
general, you know, they visit no newcomers.
Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible
for us to visit him if you do not.”
“You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare
say Mr. Bingley will be very glad to see you;
and I will send a few lines by you to assure
him of my hearty consent to his marrying
whichever he chooses of the girls; though I
must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy.”
“I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy
is not a bit better than the others; and I am
sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor
half so good-humoured as Lydia. But you are
always giving her the preference.”
“They have none of them much to recommend them,” replied he; “they are all silly and
ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of quickness than her sisters.”
“Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own
children in such a way? You take delight in
vexing me. You have no compassion for my
poor nerves.”
“You mistake me, my dear. I have a high
respect for your nerves. They are my old
friends. I have heard you mention them
with consideration these last twenty years at
least.”
Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick
parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice,
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Pride and Prejudice
that the experience of three-and-twenty years
had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. Her mind was less difficult to develop. She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain
temper. When she was discontented, she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life
was to get her daughters married; its solace
was visiting and news.
Chapter 2
Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those
who waited on Mr. Bingley. He had always intended to visit him, though to the last always
assuring his wife that he should not go; and
till the evening after the visit was paid she
had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed
in the following manner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he
suddenly addressed her with:
“I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.”
“We are not in a way to know what Mr. Bingley likes,” said her mother resentfully, “since
we are not to visit.”
“But you forget, mamma,” said Elizabeth,
“that we shall meet him at the assemblies,
and that Mrs. Long promised to introduce
him.”
“I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such
thing. She has two nieces of her own. She is
a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no
opinion of her.”
“No more have I,” said Mr. Bennet; “and I
am glad to find that you do not depend on her
serving you.”
Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any re-
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Pride and Prejudice
ply, but, unable to contain herself, began
scolding one of her daughters.
“Don’t keep coughing so, Kitty, for
Heaven’s sake! Have a little compassion on
my nerves. You tear them to pieces.”
“Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,”
said her father; “she times them ill.”
“I do not cough for my own amusement,”
replied Kitty fretfully. “When is your next ball
to be, Lizzy?”
“To-morrow fortnight.”
“Aye, so it is,” cried her mother, “and Mrs.
Long does not come back till the day before; so
it will be impossible for her to introduce him,
for she will not know him herself.”
“Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce Mr. Bingley
to her.”
“Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when
I am not acquainted with him myself; how can
you be so teasing?”
“I honour your circumspection. A fortnight’s acquaintance is certainly very little.
One cannot know what a man really is by the
end of a fortnight. But if we do not venture
somebody else will; and after all, Mrs. Long
and her daughters must stand their chance;
and, therefore, as she will think it an act of
kindness, if you decline the office, I will take
it on myself.”
The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only, “Nonsense, nonsense!”
“What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?” cried he. “Do you consider the forms of introduction, and the stress
Chapter 2
7
that is laid on them, as nonsense? I cannot
quite agree with you there. What say you,
Mary? For you are a young lady of deep reflection, I know, and read great books and make
extracts.”
Mary wished to say something sensible,
but knew not how.
“While Mary is adjusting her ideas,” he
continued, “let us return to Mr. Bingley.”
“I am sick of Mr. Bingley,” cried his wife.
“I am sorry to hear that; but why did not
you tell me that before? If I had known as
much this morning I certainly would not have
called on him. It is very unlucky; but as I have
actually paid the visit, we cannot escape the
acquaintance now.”
The astonishment of the ladies was just
what he wished; that of Mrs. Bennet perhaps
surpassing the rest; though, when the first tumult of joy was over, she began to declare that
it was what she had expected all the while.
“How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should persuade you at last.
I was sure you loved your girls too well to neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased
I am! and it is such a good joke, too, that you
should have gone this morning and never said
a word about it till now.”
“Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you
choose,” said Mr. Bennet; and, as he spoke, he
left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his
wife.
“What an excellent father you have, girls!”
said she, when the door was shut. “I do not
know how you will ever make him amends for
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Pride and Prejudice
his kindness; or me, either, for that matter. At
our time of life it is not so pleasant, I can tell
you, to be making new acquaintances every
day; but for your sakes, we would do anything.
Lydia, my love, though you are the youngest,
I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at
the next ball.”
“Oh!” said Lydia stoutly, “I am not afraid;
for though I am the youngest, I’m the tallest.”
The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he would return Mr. Bennet’s
visit, and determining when they should ask
him to dinner.
Chapter 3
Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the
assistance of her five daughters, could ask
on the subject, was sufficient to draw from
her husband any satisfactory description of
Mr. Bingley. They attacked him in various
ways—with barefaced questions, ingenious
suppositions, and distant surmises; but he
eluded the skill of them all, and they were at
last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour, Lady Lucas. Her
report was highly favourable. Sir William had
been delighted with him. He was quite young,
wonderfully handsome, extremely agreeable,
and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at
the next assembly with a large party. Nothing
could be more delightful! To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love;
and very lively hopes of Mr. Bingley’s heart
were entertained.
“If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield,” said Mrs. Bennet
to her husband, “and all the others equally
well married, I shall have nothing to wish for.”
In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr.
Bennet’s visit, and sat about ten minutes with
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Pride and Prejudice
him in his library. He had entertained hopes
of being admitted to a sight of the young
ladies, of whose beauty he had heard much;
but he saw only the father. The ladies were
somewhat more fortunate, for they had the
advantage of ascertaining from an upper window that he wore a blue coat, and rode a black
horse.
An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and already had Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit
to her housekeeping, when an answer arrived
which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley was obliged
to be in town the following day, and, consequently, unable to accept the honour of their
invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite disconcerted. She could not imagine what business
he could have in town so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear
that he might be always flying about from one
place to another, and never settled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted
her fears a little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to get a large party
for the ball; and a report soon followed that
Mr. Bingley was to bring twelve ladies and
seven gentlemen with him to the assembly.
The girls grieved over such a number of ladies,
but were comforted the day before the ball
by hearing, that instead of twelve he brought
only six with him from London—his five sisters and a cousin. And when the party entered the assembly room it consisted of only
five altogether—Mr. Bingley, his two sisters,
the husband of the eldest, and another young
Chapter 3
11
man.
Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant countenance, and
easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were
fine women, with an air of decided fashion.
His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely looked
the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon
drew the attention of the room by his fine, tall
person, handsome features, noble mien, and
the report which was in general circulation
within five minutes after his entrance, of his
having ten thousand a year. The gentlemen
pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man,
the ladies declared he was much handsomer
than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with
great admiration for about half the evening,
till his manners gave a disgust which turned
the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud; to be above his company, and
above being pleased; and not all his large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from
having a most forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared
with his friend.
Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal people in the
room; he was lively and unreserved, danced
every dance, was angry that the ball closed
so early, and talked of giving one himself
at Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must
speak for themselves. What a contrast between him and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced
only once with Mrs. Hurst and once with
Miss Bingley, declined being introduced to any
other lady, and spent the rest of the evening
12
Pride and Prejudice
in walking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party. His character
was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man in the world, and everybody
hoped that he would never come there again.
Amongst the most violent against him was
Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of his general behaviour was sharpened into particular resentment by his having slighted one of her daughters.
Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the
scarcity of gentlemen, to sit down for two
dances; and during part of that time, Mr.
Darcy had been standing near enough for her
to hear a conversation between him and Mr.
Bingley, who came from the dance for a few
minutes, to press his friend to join it.
“Come, Darcy,” said he, “I must have you
dance. I hate to see you standing about by
yourself in this stupid manner. You had much
better dance.”
“I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted
with my partner. At such an assembly as this
it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the
room whom it would not be a punishment to
me to stand up with.”
“I would not be so fastidious as you are,”
cried Mr. Bingley, “for a kingdom! Upon my
honour, I never met with so many pleasant
girls in my life as I have this evening; and
there are several of them you see uncommonly
pretty.”
“You are dancing with the only handsome
Chapter 3
13
girl in the room,” said Mr. Darcy, looking at
the eldest Miss Bennet.
“Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I
ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty,
and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask
my partner to introduce you.”
“Which do you mean?” and turning round
he looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till
catching her eye, he withdrew his own and
coldly said: “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humour
at present to give consequence to young ladies
who are slighted by other men. You had better
return to your partner and enjoy her smiles,
for you are wasting your time with me.”
Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy
walked off; and Elizabeth remained with no
very cordial feelings toward him. She told the
story, however, with great spirit among her
friends; for she had a lively, playful disposition, which delighted in anything ridiculous.
The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family. Mrs. Bennet had
seen her eldest daughter much admired by
the Netherfield party. Mr. Bingley had danced
with her twice, and she had been distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified by this as her mother could be, though
in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane’s pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to
Miss Bingley as the most accomplished girl in
the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia
had been fortunate enough never to be without partners, which was all that they had yet
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Pride and Prejudice
learnt to care for at a ball. They returned,
therefore, in good spirits to Longbourn, the
village where they lived, and of which they
were the principal inhabitants. They found
Mr. Bennet still up. With a book he was regardless of time; and on the present occasion
he had a good deal of curiosity as to the events
of an evening which had raised such splendid
expectations. He had rather hoped that his
wife’s views on the stranger would be disappointed; but he soon found out that he had a
different story to hear.
“Oh! my dear Mr. Bennet,” as she entered
the room, “we have had a most delightful
evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you
had been there. Jane was so admired, nothing could be like it. Everybody said how well
she looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her quite
beautiful, and danced with her twice! Only
think of that, my dear; he actually danced
with her twice! and she was the only creature
in the room that he asked a second time. First
of all, he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed
to see him stand up with her! But, however,
he did not admire her at all; indeed, nobody
can, you know; and he seemed quite struck
with Jane as she was going down the dance.
So he inquired who she was, and got introduced, and asked her for the two next. Then
the two third he danced with Miss King, and
the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two
fifth with Jane again, and the two sixth with
Lizzy, and the Boulanger—”
“If he had had any compassion for me,”
cried her husband impatiently, “he would not
Chapter 3
15
have danced half so much! For God’s sake,
say no more of his partners. O that he had
sprained his ankle in the first place!”
“Oh! my dear, I am quite delighted with
him. He is so excessively handsome! And
his sisters are charming women. I never in
my life saw anything more elegant than their
dresses. I dare say the lace upon Mrs. Hurst’s
gown—”
Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another branch of the subject, and related, with
much bitterness of spirit and some exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy.
“But I can assure you,” she added, “that
Lizzy does not lose much by not suiting his
fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid
man, not at all worth pleasing. So high and so
conceited that there was no enduring him! He
walked here, and he walked there, fancying
himself so very great! Not handsome enough
to dance with! I wish you had been there, my
dear, to have given him one of your set-downs.
I quite detest the man.”
16
Pride and Prejudice
Chapter 4
When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in her praise of
Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister just
how very much she admired him.
“He is just what a young man ought to be,”
said she, “sensible, good-humoured, lively;
and I never saw such happy manners!—so
much ease, with such perfect good breeding!”
“He is also handsome,” replied Elizabeth,
“which a young man ought likewise to be, if
he possibly can. His character is thereby complete.”
“I was very much flattered by his asking
me to dance a second time. I did not expect
such a compliment.”
“Did not you? I did for you. But that
is one great difference between us. Compliments always take you by surprise, and me
never. What could be more natural than his
asking you again? He could not help seeing
that you were about five times as pretty as
every other woman in the room. No thanks
to his gallantry for that. Well, he certainly
is very agreeable, and I give you leave to like
him. You have liked many a stupider person.”
17
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Pride and Prejudice
“Dear Lizzy!”
“Oh! you are a great deal too apt, you know,
to like people in general. You never see a fault
in anybody. All the world are good and agreeable in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill
of a human being in your life.”
“I would not wish to be hasty in censuring
anyone; but I always speak what I think.”
“I know you do; and it is that which makes
the wonder. With your good sense, to be
so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense
of others! Affectation of candour is common
enough—one meets with it everywhere. But
to be candid without ostentation or design—to
take the good of everybody’s character and
make it still better, and say nothing of the
bad—belongs to you alone. And so you like
this man’s sisters, too, do you? Their manners
are not equal to his.”
“Certainly not—at first. But they are
very pleasing women when you converse with
them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother,
and keep his house; and I am much mistaken
if we shall not find a very charming neighbour
in her.”
Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not
convinced; their behaviour at the assembly
had not been calculated to please in general;
and with more quickness of observation and
less pliancy of temper than her sister, and
with a judgement too unassailed by any attention to herself, she was very little disposed
to approve them. They were in fact very fine
ladies; not deficient in good humour when
they were pleased, nor in the power of making
Chapter 4
19
themselves agreeable when they chose it, but
proud and conceited. They were rather handsome, had been educated in one of the first
private seminaries in town, had a fortune of
twenty thousand pounds, were in the habit of
spending more than they ought, and of associating with people of rank, and were therefore in every respect entitled to think well of
themselves, and meanly of others. They were
of a respectable family in the north of England; a circumstance more deeply impressed
on their memories than that their brother’s
fortune and their own had been acquired by
trade.
Mr. Bingley inherited property to the
amount of nearly a hundred thousand pounds
from his father, who had intended to purchase
an estate, but did not live to do it. Mr. Bingley intended it likewise, and sometimes made
choice of his county; but as he was now provided with a good house and the liberty of a
manor, it was doubtful to many of those who
best knew the easiness of his temper, whether
he might not spend the remainder of his days
at Netherfield, and leave the next generation
to purchase.
His sisters were anxious for his having an
estate of his own; but, though he was now
only established as a tenant, Miss Bingley
was by no means unwilling to preside at his
table—nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had married
a man of more fashion than fortune, less disposed to consider his house as her home when
it suited her. Mr. Bingley had not been of age
two years, when he was tempted by an acci-
20
Pride and Prejudice
dental recommendation to look at Netherfield
House. He did look at it, and into it for halfan-hour—was pleased with the situation and
the principal rooms, satisfied with what the
owner said in its praise, and took it immediately.
Between him and Darcy there was a very
steady friendship, in spite of great opposition
of character. Bingley was endeared to Darcy
by the easiness, openness, and ductility of his
temper, though no disposition could offer a
greater contrast to his own, and though with
his own he never appeared dissatisfied. On
the strength of Darcy’s regard, Bingley had
the firmest reliance, and of his judgement the
highest opinion. In understanding, Darcy was
the superior. Bingley was by no means deficient, but Darcy was clever. He was at the
same time haughty, reserved, and fastidious,
and his manners, though well-bred, were not
inviting. In that respect his friend had greatly
the advantage. Bingley was sure of being
liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually giving offense.
The manner in which they spoke of the
Meryton assembly was sufficiently characteristic. Bingley had never met with more pleasant people or prettier girls in his life; everybody had been most kind and attentive to him;
there had been no formality, no stiffness; he
had soon felt acquainted with all the room;
and, as to Miss Bennet, he could not conceive
an angel more beautiful. Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a collection of people in whom
there was little beauty and no fashion, for
Chapter 4
21
none of whom he had felt the smallest interest, and from none received either attention
or pleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to
be pretty, but she smiled too much.
Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be
so—but still they admired her and liked her,
and pronounced her to be a sweet girl, and
one whom they would not object to know more
of. Miss Bennet was therefore established as
a sweet girl, and their brother felt authorized
by such commendation to think of her as he
chose.
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Pride and Prejudice
Chapter 5
Within a short walk of Longbourn lived a
family with whom the Bennets were particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been
formerly in trade in Meryton, where he had
made a tolerable fortune, and risen to the honour of knighthood by an address to the king
during his mayoralty. The distinction had perhaps been felt too strongly. It had given him
a disgust to his business, and to his residence
in a small market town; and, in quitting them
both, he had removed with his family to a
house about a mile from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge, where he
could think with pleasure of his own importance, and, unshackled by business, occupy
himself solely in being civil to all the world.
For, though elated by his rank, it did not render him supercilious; on the contrary, he was
all attention to everybody. By nature inoffensive, friendly, and obliging, his presentation at
St. James’s had made him courteous.
Lady Lucas was a very good kind of
woman, not too clever to be a valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children. The eldest of them, a sensible, intelli-
23
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Pride and Prejudice
gent young woman, about twenty-seven, was
Elizabeth’s intimate friend.
That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk over a ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the
assembly brought the former to Longbourn to
hear and to communicate.
“You began the evening well, Charlotte,”
said Mrs. Bennet with civil self-command to
Miss Lucas. “You were Mr. Bingley’s first
choice.”
“Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.”
“Oh! you mean Jane, I suppose, because he
danced with her twice. To be sure that did
seem as if he admired her—indeed I rather believe he did—I heard something about it—but
I hardly know what—something about Mr.
Robinson.”
“Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson; did not I mention it to you? Mr. Robinson’s asking him
how he liked our Meryton assemblies, and
whether he did not think there were a great
many pretty women in the room, and which he
thought the prettiest? and his answering immediately to the last question: ‘Oh! the eldest
Miss Bennet, beyond a doubt; there cannot be
two opinions on that point.”’
“Upon my word! Well, that is very decided
indeed—that does seem as if—but, however, it
may all come to nothing, you know.”
“My overhearings were more to the purpose than yours, Eliza,” said Charlotte. “Mr.
Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his
Chapter 5
25
friend, is he?—poor Eliza!—to be only just tolerable.”
“I beg you would not put it into Lizzy’s
head to be vexed by his ill-treatment, for he
is such a disagreeable man, that it would be
quite a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs.
Long told me last night that he sat close to
her for half-an-hour without once opening his
lips.”
“Are you quite sure, ma’am?—is not there
a little mistake?” said Jane. “I certainly saw
Mr. Darcy speaking to her.”
“Aye—because she asked him at last how
he liked Netherfield, and he could not help answering her; but she said he seemed quite angry at being spoke to.”
“Miss Bingley told me,” said Jane, “that
he never speaks much, unless among his intimate acquaintances. With them he is remarkably agreeable.”
“I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If
he had been so very agreeable, he would have
talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how it
was; everybody says that he is eat up with
pride, and I dare say he had heard somehow
that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage, and
had come to the ball in a hack chaise.”
“I do not mind his not talking to Mrs.
Long,” said Miss Lucas, “but I wish he had
danced with Eliza.”
“Another time, Lizzy,” said her mother, “I
would not dance with him, if I were you.”
“I believe, ma’am, I may safely promise you
never to dance with him.”
“His pride,” said Miss Lucas, “does not of-
26
Pride and Prejudice
fend me so much as pride often does, because
there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder
that so very fine a young man, with family,
fortune, everything in his favour, should think
highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has
a right to be proud.”
“That is very true,” replied Elizabeth, “and
I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not
mortified mine.”
“Pride,” observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her reflections, “is a
very common failing, I believe. By all that I
have ever read, I am convinced that it is very
common indeed; that human nature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very
few of us who do not cherish a feeling of selfcomplacency on the score of some quality or
other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are
different things, though the words are often
used synonymously. A person may be proud
without being vain. Pride relates more to our
opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would
have others think of us.”
“If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy,” cried a
young Lucas, who came with his sisters, “I
should not care how proud I was. I would keep
a pack of foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine
a day.”
“Then you would drink a great deal more
than you ought,” said Mrs. Bennet; “and if I
were to see you at it, I should take away your
bottle directly.”
The boy protested that she should not; she
continued to declare that she would, and the
argument ended only with the visit.
Chapter 6
The ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those
of Netherfield. The visit was soon returned
in due form. Miss Bennet’s pleasing manners
grew on the goodwill of Mrs. Hurst and Miss
Bingley; and though the mother was found
to be intolerable, and the younger sisters not
worth speaking to, a wish of being better acquainted with them was expressed towards
the two eldest. By Jane, this attention was
received with the greatest pleasure, but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment of everybody, hardly excepting even her
sister, and could not like them; though their
kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value
as arising in all probability from the influence
of their brother’s admiration. It was generally
evident whenever they met, that he did admire her and to her it was equally evident that
Jane was yielding to the preference which she
had begun to entertain for him from the first,
and was in a way to be very much in love; but
she considered with pleasure that it was not
likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Jane united, with great strength of
feeling, a composure of temper and a uniform
27
28
Pride and Prejudice
cheerfulness of manner which would guard
her from the suspicions of the impertinent.
She mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas.
“It may perhaps be pleasant,” replied
Charlotte, “to be able to impose on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be so very guarded. If a woman
conceals her affection with the same skill from
the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of
fixing him; and it will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in the dark.
There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every attachment, that it is not safe to
leave any to itself. We can all begin freely—a
slight preference is natural enough; but there
are very few of us who have heart enough to
be really in love without encouragement. In
nine cases out of ten a women had better show
more affection than she feels. Bingley likes
your sister undoubtedly; but he may never do
more than like her, if she does not help him
on.”
“But she does help him on, as much as her
nature will allow. If I can perceive her regard
for him, he must be a simpleton, indeed, not
to discover it too.”
“Remember, Eliza, that he does not know
Jane’s disposition as you do.”
“But if a woman is partial to a man, and
does not endeavour to conceal it, he must find
it out.”
“Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of
her. But, though Bingley and Jane meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and, as they always see each other in
Chapter 6
29
large mixed parties, it is impossible that every moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should therefore make the
most of every half-hour in which she can command his attention. When she is secure of
him, there will be more leisure for falling in
love as much as she chooses.”
“Your plan is a good one,” replied Elizabeth, “where nothing is in question but the desire of being well married, and if I were determined to get a rich husband, or any husband,
I dare say I should adopt it. But these are not
Jane’s feelings; she is not acting by design. As
yet, she cannot even be certain of the degree of
her own regard nor of its reasonableness. She
has known him only a fortnight. She danced
four dances with him at Meryton; she saw him
one morning at his own house, and has since
dined with him in company four times. This is
not quite enough to make her understand his
character.”
“Not as you represent it. Had she merely
dined with him, she might only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but you
must remember that four evenings have also
been spent together—and four evenings may
do a great deal.”
“Yes; these four evenings have enabled
them to ascertain that they both like Vingtun better than Commerce; but with respect
to any other leading characteristic, I do not
imagine that much has been unfolded.”
“Well,” said Charlotte, “I wish Jane success
with all my heart; and if she were married
to him to-morrow, I should think she had as
30
Pride and Prejudice
good a chance of happiness as if she were to
be studying his character for a twelvemonth.
Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of
chance. If the dispositions of the parties are
ever so well known to each other or ever so
similar beforehand, it does not advance their
felicity in the least. They always continue
to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have
their share of vexation; and it is better to
know as little as possible of the defects of the
person with whom you are to pass your life.”
“You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is
not sound. You know it is not sound, and that
you would never act in this way yourself.”
Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley’s attentions to her sister, Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend.
Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely allowed her to
be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he
looked at her only to criticise. But no sooner
had he made it clear to himself and his friends
that she hardly had a good feature in her face,
than he began to find it was rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression
of her dark eyes. To this discovery succeeded
some others equally mortifying. Though he
had detected with a critical eye more than
one failure of perfect symmetry in her form,
he was forced to acknowledge her figure to
be light and pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those of
the fashionable world, he was caught by their
easy playfulness. Of this she was perfectly un-
Chapter 6
31
aware; to her he was only the man who made
himself agreeable nowhere, and who had not
thought her handsome enough to dance with.
He began to wish to know more of her, and
as a step towards conversing with her himself,
attended to her conversation with others. His
doing so drew her notice. It was at Sir William
Lucas’s, where a large party were assembled.
“What does Mr. Darcy mean,” said she to
Charlotte, “by listening to my conversation
with Colonel Forster?”
“That is a question which Mr. Darcy only
can answer.”
“But if he does it any more I shall certainly
let him know that I see what he is about. He
has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin
by being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow
afraid of him.”
On his approaching them soon afterwards,
though without seeming to have any intention
of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to
mention such a subject to him; which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she turned
to him and said:
“Did you not think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now,
when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us
a ball at Meryton?”
“With great energy; but it is always a subject which makes a lady energetic.”
“You are severe on us.”
“It will be her turn soon to be teased,” said
Miss Lucas. “I am going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.”
“You are a very strange creature by way
32
Pride and Prejudice
of a friend!—always wanting me to play and
sing before anybody and everybody! If my
vanity had taken a musical turn, you would
have been invaluable; but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who must
be in the habit of hearing the very best performers.” On Miss Lucas’s persevering, however, she added, “Very well, if it must be so,
it must.” And gravely glancing at Mr. Darcy,
“There is a fine old saying, which everybody
here is of course familiar with: ‘Keep your
breath to cool your porridge’; and I shall keep
mine to swell my song.”
Her performance was pleasing, though by
no means capital. After a song or two, and
before she could reply to the entreaties of several that she would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her sister Mary, who having, in consequence of being
the only plain one in the family, worked hard
for knowledge and accomplishments, was always impatient for display.
Mary had neither genius nor taste; and
though vanity had given her application, it
had given her likewise a pedantic air and
conceited manner, which would have injured
a higher degree of excellence than she had
reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had
been listened to with much more pleasure,
though not playing half so well; and Mary, at
the end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by Scotch and Irish
airs, at the request of her younger sisters,
who, with some of the Lucases, and two or
three officers, joined eagerly in dancing at one
Chapter 6
33
end of the room.
Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of passing the evening,
to the exclusion of all conversation, and was
too much engrossed by his thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas was his neighbour, till Sir William thus began:
“What a charming amusement for young
people this is, Mr. Darcy! There is nothing
like dancing after all. I consider it as one of
the first refinements of polished society.”
“Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage
also of being in vogue amongst the less polished societies of the world. Every savage can
dance.”
Sir William only smiled. “Your friend
performs delightfully,” he continued after a
pause, on seeing Bingley join the group; “and I
doubt not that you are an adept in the science
yourself, Mr. Darcy.”
“You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe,
sir.”
“Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do you often
dance at St. James’s?”
“Never, sir.”
“Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?”
“It is a compliment which I never pay to
any place if I can avoid it.”
“You have a house in town, I conclude?”
Mr. Darcy bowed.
“I had once had some thought of fixing in
town myself—for I am fond of superior society;
but I did not feel quite certain that the air of
34
Pride and Prejudice
London would agree with Lady Lucas.”
He paused in hopes of an answer; but his
companion was not disposed to make any;
and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards
them, he was struck with the action of doing a
very gallant thing, and called out to her:
“My dear Miss Eliza, why are you not dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to present
this young lady to you as a very desirable
partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure
when so much beauty is before you.” And, taking her hand, he would have given it to Mr.
Darcy who, though extremely surprised, was
not unwilling to receive it, when she instantly
drew back, and said with some discomposure
to Sir William:
“Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention
of dancing. I entreat you not to suppose that I
moved this way in order to beg for a partner.”
Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested
to be allowed the honour of her hand, but in
vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor did Sir
William at all shake her purpose by his attempt at persuasion.
“You excel so much in the dance, Miss
Eliza, that it is cruel to deny me the happiness
of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the amusement in general, he can have
no objection, I am sure, to oblige us for one
half-hour.”
“Mr. Darcy is all politeness,” said Elizabeth, smiling.
“He is, indeed; but, considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza, we cannot wonder
at his complaisance—for who would object to
Chapter 6
35
such a partner?”
Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away.
Her resistance had not injured her with the
gentleman, and he was thinking of her with
some complacency, when thus accosted by
Miss Bingley:
“I can guess the subject of your reverie.”
“I should imagine not.”
“You are considering how insupportable
it would be to pass many evenings in this
manner—in such society; and indeed I am
quite of you opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet the noise—the
nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all
those people! What would I give to hear your
strictures on them!”
“You conjecture is totally wrong, I assure
you. My mind was more agreeably engaged. I
have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a
pretty woman can bestow.”
Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes
on his face, and desired he would tell her what
lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity:
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” repeated Miss
Bingley. “I am all astonishment. How long
has she been such a favourite?—and pray,
when am I to wish you joy?”
“That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady’s imagination is very
rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from
love to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you
36
Pride and Prejudice
would be wishing me joy.”
“Nay, if you are serious about it, I shall
consider the matter is absolutely settled. You
will be having a charming mother-in-law, indeed; and, of course, she will always be at
Pemberley with you.”
He listened to her with perfect indifference
while she chose to entertain herself in this
manner; and as his composure convinced her
that all was safe, her wit flowed long.
Chapter 7
Mr. Bennet’s property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two thousand a year,
which, unfortunately for his daughters, was
entailed, in default of heirs male, on a distant
relation; and their mother’s fortune, though
ample for her situation in life, could but ill
supply the deficiency of his. Her father had
been an attorney in Meryton, and had left her
four thousand pounds.
She had a sister married to a Mr. Phillips,
who had been a clerk to their father and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in London in a respectable line of trade.
The village of Longbourn was only one mile
from Meryton; a most convenient distance for
the young ladies, who were usually tempted
thither three or four times a week, to pay
their duty to their aunt and to a milliner’s
shop just over the way. The two youngest of
the family, Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions; their
minds were more vacant than their sisters’,
and when nothing better offered, a walk to
Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning hours and furnish conversation for the
37
38
Pride and Prejudice
evening; and however bare of news the country in general might be, they always contrived
to learn some from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with news
and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to
remain the whole winter, and Meryton was
the headquarters.
Their visits to Mrs. Phillips were now productive of the most interesting intelligence.
Every day added something to their knowledge of the officers’ names and connections.
Their lodgings were not long a secret, and at
length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr. Phillips visited them all, and this
opened to his nieces a store of felicity unknown before. They could talk of nothing
but officers; and Mr. Bingley’s large fortune,
the mention of which gave animation to their
mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of an ensign.
After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr. Bennet coolly observed:
“From all that I can collect by your manner
of talking, you must be two of the silliest girls
in the country. I have suspected it some time,
but I am now convinced.”
Catherine was disconcerted, and made no
answer; but Lydia, with perfect indifference,
continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter, and her hope of seeing him in the
course of the day, as he was going the next
morning to London.
“I am astonished, my dear,” said Mrs. Ben-
Chapter 7
39
net, “that you should be so ready to think your
own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly of anybody’s children, it should not be of
my own, however.”
“If my children are silly, I must hope to be
always sensible of it.”
“Yes—but as it happens, they are all of
them very clever.”
“This is the only point, I flatter myself, on
which we do not agree. I had hoped that our
sentiments coincided in every particular, but I
must so far differ from you as to think our two
youngest daughters uncommonly foolish.”
“My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of their father and mother. When they get to our age, I
dare say they will not think about officers any
more than we do. I remember the time when
I liked a red coat myself very well—and, indeed, so I do still at my heart; and if a smart
young colonel, with five or six thousand a year,
should want one of my girls I shall not say nay
to him; and I thought Colonel Forster looked
very becoming the other night at Sir William’s
in his regimentals.”
“Mamma,” cried Lydia, “my aunt says that
Colonel Forster and Captain Carter do not go
so often to Miss Watson’s as they did when
they first came; she sees them now very often
standing in Clarke’s library.”
Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the
entrance of the footman with a note for Miss
Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited for an answer. Mrs. Bennet’s eyes
sparkled with pleasure, and she was eagerly
40
Pride and Prejudice
calling out, while her daughter read,
“Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it
about? What does he say? Well, Jane, make
haste and tell us; make haste, my love.”
“It is from Miss Bingley,” said Jane, and
then read it aloud.
“M Y DEAR FRIEND,—
“If you are not so compassionate
as to dine to-day with Louisa and
me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our
lives, for a whole day’s tete-a-tete
between two women can never end
without a quarrel. Come as soon
as you can on receipt of this. My
brother and the gentlemen are to
dine with the officers.—Yours ever,
“C AROLINE B INGLEY”
“With the officers!” cried Lydia. “I wonder my
aunt did not tell us of that.”
“Dining out,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that is
very unlucky.”
“Can I have the carriage?” said Jane.
“No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to rain; and then
you must stay all night.”
“That would be a good scheme,” said Elizabeth, “if you were sure that they would not
offer to send her home.”
“Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley’s chaise to go to Meryton, and the Hursts
have no horses to theirs.”
“I had much rather go in the coach.”
Chapter 7
41
“But, my dear, your father cannot spare
the horses, I am sure. They are wanted in the
farm, Mr. Bennet, are they not?”
“They are wanted in the farm much oftener
than I can get them.”
“But if you have got them to-day,” said
Elizabeth, “my mother’s purpose will be answered.”
She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the horses were engaged.
Jane was therefore obliged to go on horseback,
and her mother attended her to the door with
many cheerful prognostics of a bad day. Her
hopes were answered; Jane had not been gone
long before it rained hard. Her sisters were
uneasy for her, but her mother was delighted.
The rain continued the whole evening without
intermission; Jane certainly could not some
back.
“This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!”
said Mrs. Bennet more than once, as if the
credit of making it rain were all her own.
Till the next morning, however, she was not
aware of all the felicity of her contrivance.
Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant
from Netherfield brought the following note
for Elizabeth:
“M Y DEAREST L IZZY ,—
“I find myself very unwell this
morning, which, I suppose, is to be
imputed to my getting wet through
yesterday. My kind friends will not
hear of my returning till I am better. They insist also on my see-
42
Pride and Prejudice
ing Mr. Jones—therefore do not be
alarmed if you should hear of his
having been to me—and, excepting a sore throat and headache,
there is not much the matter with
me.—Yours, etc.”
“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the note aloud, “if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of illness—if
she should die, it would be a comfort to know
that it was all in pursuit of Mr. Bingley, and
under your orders.”
“Oh! I am not afraid of her dying. People
do not die of little trifling colds. She will be
taken good care of. As long as she stays there,
it is all very well. I would go and see her if I
could have the carriage.”
Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her, though the carriage was
not to be had; and as she was no horsewoman,
walking was her only alternative. She declared her resolution.
“How can you be so silly,” cried her mother,
“as to think of such a thing, in all this dirt!
You will not be fit to be seen when you get
there.”
“I shall be very fit to see Jane—which is all
I want.”
“Is this a hint to me, Lizzy,” said her father,
“to send for the horses?”
“No, indeed, I do not wish to avoid the
walk. The distance is nothing when one has
a motive; only three miles. I shall be back by
dinner.”
Chapter 7
43
“I admire the activity of your benevolence,”
observed Mary, “but every impulse of feeling
should be guided by reason; and, in my opinion, exertion should always be in proportion to
what is required.”
“We will go as far as Meryton with you,”
said Catherine and Lydia. Elizabeth accepted
their company, and the three young ladies set
off together.
“If we make haste,” said Lydia, as they
walked along, “perhaps we may see something
of Captain Carter before he goes.”
In Meryton they parted; the two youngest
repaired to the lodgings of one of the officers’ wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk
alone, crossing field after field at a quick pace,
jumping over stiles and springing over puddles with impatient activity, and finding herself at last within view of the house, with
weary ankles, dirty stockings, and a face glowing with the warmth of exercise.
She was shown into the breakfast-parlour,
where all but Jane were assembled, and
where her appearance created a great deal
of surprise. That she should have walked
three miles so early in the day, in such dirty
weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her in contempt for it. She was received, however, very
politely by them; and in their brother’s manners there was something better than politeness; there was good humour and kindness.
Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr. Hurst nothing at all. The former was divided between ad-
44
Pride and Prejudice
miration of the brilliancy which exercise had
given to her complexion, and doubt as to the
occasion’s justifying her coming so far alone.
The latter was thinking only of his breakfast.
Her inquiries after her sister were not very
favourably answered. Miss Bennet had slept
ill, and though up, was very feverish, and
not well enough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad to be taken to her immediately;
and Jane, who had only been withheld by the
fear of giving alarm or inconvenience from expressing in her note how much she longed for
such a visit, was delighted at her entrance.
She was not equal, however, to much conversation, and when Miss Bingley left them
together, could attempt little besides expressions of gratitude for the extraordinary kindness she was treated with. Elizabeth silently
attended her.
When breakfast was over they were joined
by the sisters; and Elizabeth began to like
them herself, when she saw how much affection and solicitude they showed for Jane.
The apothecary came, and having examined
his patient, said, as might be supposed, that
she had caught a violent cold, and that they
must endeavour to get the better of it; advised
her to return to bed, and promised her some
draughts. The advice was followed readily,
for the feverish symptoms increased, and her
head ached acutely. Elizabeth did not quit her
room for a moment; nor were the other ladies
often absent; the gentlemen being out, they
had, in fact, nothing to do elsewhere.
When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt
Chapter 7
45
that she must go, and very unwillingly said
so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage, and
she only wanted a little pressing to accept it,
when Jane testified such concern in parting
with her, that Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer of the chaise to an invitation to
remain at Netherfield for the present. Elizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was dispatched to Longbourn to acquaint
the family with her stay and bring back a supply of clothes.
46
Pride and Prejudice
Chapter 8
At five o’clock the two ladies retired to dress,
and at half-past six Elizabeth was summoned
to dinner. To the civil inquiries which then
poured in, and amongst which she had the
pleasure of distinguishing the much superior
solicitude of Mr. Bingley’s, she could not make
a very favourable answer. Jane was by no
means better. The sisters, on hearing this,
repeated three or four times how much they
were grieved, how shocking it was to have a
bad cold, and how excessively they disliked
being ill themselves; and then thought no
more of the matter: and their indifference
towards Jane when not immediately before
them restored Elizabeth to the enjoyment of
all her former dislike.
Their brother, indeed, was the only one of
the party whom she could regard with any
complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his attentions to herself most pleasing, and they prevented her feeling herself so
much an intruder as she believed she was considered by the others. She had very little notice from any but him. Miss Bingley was engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister scarcely less
47
48
Pride and Prejudice
so; and as for Mr. Hurst, by whom Elizabeth
sat, he was an indolent man, who lived only
to eat, drink, and play at cards; who, when he
found her to prefer a plain dish to a ragout,
had nothing to say to her.
When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss Bingley began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room.
Her manners were pronounced to be very bad
indeed, a mixture of pride and impertinence;
she had no conversation, no style, no beauty.
Mrs. Hurst thought the same, and added:
“She has nothing, in short, to recommend
her, but being an excellent walker. I shall
never forget her appearance this morning.
She really looked almost wild.”
“She did, indeed, Louisa. I could hardly
keep my countenance. Very nonsensical to
come at all! Why must she be scampering
about the country, because her sister had a
cold? Her hair, so untidy, so blowsy!”
“Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her
petticoat, six inches deep in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been
let down to hide it not doing its office.”
“Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,”
said Bingley; “but this was all lost upon me.
I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably well when she came into the room
this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice.”
“You observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,”
said Miss Bingley; “and I am inclined to think
that you would not wish to see your sister
make such an exhibition.”
Chapter 8
49
“Certainly not.”
“To walk three miles, or four miles, or five
miles, or whatever it is, above her ankles in
dirt, and alone, quite alone! What could she
mean by it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independence, a most
country-town indifference to decorum.”
“It shows an affection for her sister that is
very pleasing,” said Bingley.
“I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,” observed Miss
Bingley in a half whisper, “that this adventure
has rather affected your admiration of her fine
eyes.”
“Not at all,” he replied; “they were brightened by the exercise.” A short pause followed
this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again:
“I have a excessive regard for Miss Jane
Bennet, she is really a very sweet girl, and I
wish with all my heart she were well settled.
But with such a father and mother, and such
low connections, I am afraid there is no chance
of it.”
“I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney on Meryton.”
“Yes; and they have another, who lives
somewhere near Cheapside.”
“That is capital,” added her sister, and they
both laughed heartily.
“If they had uncles enough to fill all Cheapside,” cried Bingley, “it would not make them
one jot less agreeable.”
“But it must very materially lessen their
chance of marrying men of any consideration
in the world,” replied Darcy.
To this speech Bingley made no answer;
50
Pride and Prejudice
but his sisters gave it their hearty assent, and
indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of their dear friend’s vulgar relations.
With a renewal of tenderness, however,
they returned to her room on leaving the
dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee. She was still very poorly, and
Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till late
in the evening, when she had the comfort of
seeing her sleep, and when it seemed to her
rather right than pleasant that she should go
downstairs herself. On entering the drawingroom she found the whole party at loo, and
was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting them to be playing high she declined
it, and making her sister the excuse, said she
would amuse herself for the short time she
could stay below, with a book. Mr. Hurst
looked at her with astonishment.
“Do you prefer reading to cards?” said he;
“that is rather singular.”
“Miss Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley,
“despises cards. She is a great reader, and has
no pleasure in anything else.”
“I deserve neither such praise nor such
censure,” cried Elizabeth; “I am not a great
reader, and I have pleasure in many things.”
“In nursing your sister I am sure you have
pleasure,” said Bingley; “and I hope it will be
soon increased by seeing her quite well.”
Elizabeth thanked him from her heart,
and then walked towards the table where a
few books were lying. He immediately offered
to fetch her others—all that his library afforded.
Chapter 8
51
“And I wish my collection were larger for
your benefit and my own credit; but I am an
idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have
more than I ever looked into.”
Elizabeth assured him that she could suit
herself perfectly with those in the room.
“I am astonished,” said Miss Bingley, “that
my father should have left so small a collection of books. What a delightful library you
have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!”
“It ought to be good,” he replied, “it has
been the work of many generations.”
“And then you have added so much to it
yourself, you are always buying books.”
“I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these.”
“Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing
that can add to the beauties of that noble
place. Charles, when you build your house,
I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley.”
“I wish it may.”
“But I would really advise you to make
your purchase in that neighbourhood, and
take Pemberley for a kind of model. There
is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire.”
“With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley
itself if Darcy will sell it.”
“I am talking of possibilities, Charles.”
“Upon my word, Caroline, I should think
it more possible to get Pemberley by purchase
than by imitation.”
Elizabeth was so much caught with what
passed, as to leave her very little attention for
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Pride and Prejudice
her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she
drew near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister,
to observe the game.”
“Is Miss Darcy much grown since the
spring?” said Miss Bingley; “will she be as tall
as I am?”
“I think she will. She is now about Miss
Elizabeth Bennet’s height, or rather taller.”
“How I long to see her again! I never
met with anybody who delighted me so much.
Such a countenance, such manners! And so
extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.”
“It is amazing to me,” said Bingley, “how
young ladies can have patience to be so very
accomplished as they all are.”
“All young ladies accomplished! My dear
Charles, what do you mean?”
“Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens, and net purses. I scarcely
know anyone who cannot do all this, and I am
sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for
the first time, without being informed that she
was very accomplished.”
“Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,” said Darcy, “has too much truth.
The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse
or covering a screen. But I am very far from
agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies
in general. I cannot boast of knowing more
than half-a-dozen, in the whole range of my
acquaintance, that are really accomplished.”
“Nor I, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley.
Chapter 8
53
“Then,” observed Elizabeth, “you must
comprehend a great deal in your idea of an
accomplished woman.”
“Yes, I do comprehend a great deal in it.”
“Oh! certainly,” cried his faithful assistant,
“no one can be really esteemed accomplished
who does not greatly surpass what is usually
met with. A woman must have a thorough
knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the
word; and besides all this, she must possess
a certain something in her air and manner
of walking, the tone of her voice, her address
and expressions, or the word will be but halfdeserved.”
“All this she must possess,” added Darcy,
“and to all this she must yet add something
more substantial, in the improvement of her
mind by extensive reading.”
“I am no longer surprised at your knowing
only six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing any.”
“Are you so severe upon your own sex as to
doubt the possibility of all this?
“I never saw such a woman. I never saw
such capacity, and taste, and application, and
elegance, as you describe united.”
Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried
out against the injustice of her implied doubt,
and were both protesting that they knew
many women who answered this description,
when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with
bitter complaints of their inattention to what
was going forward. As all conversation was
thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards
54
Pride and Prejudice
left the room.
“Elizabeth Bennet,” said Miss Bingley,
when the door was closed on her, “is one of
those young ladies who seek to recommend
themselves to the other sex by undervaluing
their own; and with many men, I dare say, it
succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art.”
“Undoubtedly,” replied Darcy, to whom this
remark was chiefly addressed, “there is a
meanness in all the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation.
Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable.”
Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied
with this reply as to continue the subject.
Elizabeth joined them again only to say
that her sister was worse, and that she could
not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones being
sent for immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could be of any
service, recommended an express to town for
one of the most eminent physicians. This she
would not hear of; but she was not so unwilling to comply with their brother’s proposal;
and it was settled that Mr. Jones should be
sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet
were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite
uncomfortable; his sisters declared that they
were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness, however, by duets after supper, while he
could find no better relief to his feelings than
by giving his housekeeper directions that every attention might be paid to the sick lady
and her sister.
Chapter 9
Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her
sister’s room, and in the morning had the
pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the inquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid, and
some time afterwards from the two elegant
ladies who waited on his sisters. In spite of
this amendment, however, she requested to
have a note sent to Longbourn, desiring her
mother to visit Jane, and form her own judgement of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, and its contents as quickly
complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by
her two youngest girls, reached Netherfield
soon after the family breakfast.
Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that
her illness was not alarming, she had no wish
of her recovering immediately, as her restoration to health would probably remove her from
Netherfield. She would not listen, therefore,
to her daughter’s proposal of being carried
home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived
about the same time, think it at all advis-
55
56
Pride and Prejudice
able. After sitting a little while with Jane, on
Miss Bingley’s appearance and invitation, the
mother and three daughters all attended her
into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them
with hopes that Mrs. Bennet had not found
Miss Bennet worse than she expected.
“Indeed I have, sir,” was her answer. “She
is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr. Jones
says we must not think of moving her. We
must trespass a little longer on your kindness.”
“Removed!” cried Bingley. “It must not be
thought of. My sister, I am sure, will not hear
of her removal.”
“You may depend upon it, Madam,” said
Miss Bingley, with cold civility, “that Miss
Bennet will receive every possible attention
while she remains with us.”
Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgements.
“I am sure,” she added, “if it was not for
such good friends I do not know what would
become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and
suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest
patience in the world, which is always the way
with her, for she has, without exception, the
sweetest temper I have ever met with. I often
tell my other girls they are nothing to her. You
have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a
charming prospect over the gravel walk. I do
not know a place in the country that is equal
to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting
it in a hurry, I hope, though you have but a
short lease.”
“Whatever I do is done in a hurry,” replied
Chapter 9
57
he; “and therefore if I should resolve to quit
Netherfield, I should probably be off in five
minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here.”
“That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,” said Elizabeth.
“You begin to comprehend me, do you?”
cried he, turning towards her.
“Oh! yes—I understand you perfectly.”
“I wish I might take this for a compliment;
but to be so easily seen through I am afraid is
pitiful.”
“That is as it happens. It does not follow
that a deep, intricate character is more or less
estimable than such a one as yours.”
“Lizzy,” cried her mother, “remember
where you are, and do not run on in the wild
manner that you are suffered to do at home.”
“I did not know before,” continued Bingley immediately, “that your were a studier of
character. It must be an amusing study.”
“Yes, but intricate characters are the most
amusing. They have at least that advantage.”
“The country,” said Darcy, “can in general
supply but a few subjects for such a study. In
a country neighbourhood you move in a very
confined and unvarying society.”
“But people themselves alter so much, that
there is something new to be observed in them
for ever.”
“Yes, indeed,” cried Mrs. Bennet, offended
by his manner of mentioning a country neighbourhood. “I assure you there is quite as much
of that going on in the country as in town.”
Everybody was surprised, and Darcy, after
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Pride and Prejudice
looking at her for a moment, turned silently
away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had
gained a complete victory over him, continued
her triumph.
“I cannot see that London has any great
advantage over the country, for my part, except the shops and public places. The country
is a vast deal pleasanter, is it not, Mr. Bingley?”
“When I am in the country,” he replied, “I
never wish to leave it; and when I am in town
it is pretty much the same. They have each
their advantages, and I can be equally happy
in either.”
“Aye—that is because you have the right
disposition. But that gentleman,” looking at
Darcy, “seemed to think the country was nothing at all.”
“Indeed, Mamma, you are mistaken,” said
Elizabeth, blushing for her mother. “You quite
mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there
was not such a variety of people to be met with
in the country as in the town, which you must
acknowledge to be true.”
“Certainly, my dear, nobody said there
were; but as to not meeting with many people
in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few
neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with
four-and-twenty families.”
Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could
enable Bingley to keep his countenance. His
sister was less delicate, and directed her eyes
towards Mr. Darcy with a very expressive
smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of saying something that might turn her mother’s thoughts,
Chapter 9
59
now asked her if Charlotte Lucas had been at
Longbourn since her coming away.
“Yes, she called yesterday with her father.
What an agreeable man Sir William is, Mr.
Bingley, is not he? So much the man of fashion! So genteel and easy! He had always
something to say to everybody. That is my
idea of good breeding; and those persons who
fancy themselves very important, and never
open their mouths, quite mistake the matter.”
“Did Charlotte dine with you?”
“No, she would go home. I fancy she was
wanted about the mince-pies. For my part,
Mr. Bingley, I always keep servants that can
do their own work; my daughters are brought
up very differently. But everybody is to judge
for themselves, and the Lucases are a very
good sort of girls, I assure you. It is a pity they
are not handsome! Not that I think Charlotte
so very plain—but then she is our particular
friend.”
“She seems a very pleasant young woman.”
“Oh! dear, yes; but you must own she is
very plain. Lady Lucas herself has often said
so, and envied me Jane’s beauty. I do not
like to boast of my own child, but to be sure,
Jane—one does not often see anybody better
looking. It is what everybody says. I do not
trust my own partiality. When she was only
fifteen, there was a man at my brother Gardiner’s in town so much in love with her that
my sister-in-law was sure he would make her
an offer before we came away. But, however,
he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young.
However, he wrote some verses on her, and
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Pride and Prejudice
very pretty they were.”
“And so ended his affection,” said Elizabeth
impatiently. “There has been many a one, I
fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder
who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in
driving away love!”
“I have been used to consider poetry as the
food of love,” said Darcy.
“Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is strong already.
But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will
starve it entirely away.”
Darcy only smiled; and the general pause
which ensued made Elizabeth tremble lest her
mother should be exposing herself again. She
longed to speak, but could think of nothing to
say; and after a short silence Mrs. Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for
his kindness to Jane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was
unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced
his younger sister to be civil also, and say
what the occasion required. She performed
her part indeed without much graciousness,
but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to each other during the whole visit, and
the result of it was, that the youngest should
tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his
first coming into the country to give a ball at
Netherfield.
Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of
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61
fifteen, with a fine complexion and goodhumoured countenance; a favourite with her
mother, whose affection had brought her into
public at an early age. She had high animal
spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence,
which the attention of the officers, to whom
her uncle’s good dinners, and her own easy
manners recommended her, had increased
into assurance. She was very equal, therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of
the ball, and abruptly reminded him of his
promise; adding, that it would be the most
shameful thing in the world if he did not keep
it. His answer to this sudden attack was delightful to their mother’s ear:
“I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep
my engagement; and when your sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the
very day of the ball. But you would not wish
to be dancing when she is ill.”
Lydia declared herself satisfied.
“Oh!
yes—it would be much better to wait till Jane
was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And
when you have given your ball,” she added, “I
shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell
Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he
does not.”
Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned instantly to
Jane, leaving her own and her relations’ behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and
Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however, could
not be prevailed on to join in their censure of
her, in spite of all Miss Bingley’s witticisms on
62
fine eyes.
Pride and Prejudice
Chapter 10
The day passed much as the day before had
done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley had spent
some hours of the morning with the invalid,
who continued, though slowly, to mend; and
in the evening Elizabeth joined their party in
the drawing-room. The loo-table, however, did
not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss
Bingley, seated near him, was watching the
progress of his letter and repeatedly calling
off his attention by messages to his sister. Mr.
Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and
Mrs. Hurst was observing their game.
Elizabeth took up some needlework, and
was sufficiently amused in attending to what
passed between Darcy and his companion.
The perpetual commendations of the lady, either on his handwriting, or on the evenness of
his lines, or on the length of his letter, with
the perfect unconcern with which her praises
were received, formed a curious dialogue, and
was exactly in union with her opinion of each.
“How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!”
He made no answer.
“You write uncommonly fast.”
63
64
Pride and Prejudice
“You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.”
“How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a year! Letters
of business, too! How odious I should think
them!”
“It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my
lot instead of yours.”
“Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.”
“I have already told her so once, by your
desire.”
“I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let
me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably
well.”
“Thank you—but I always mend my own.”
“How can you contrive to write so even?”
He was silent.
“Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of
her improvement on the harp; and pray let
her know that I am quite in raptures with her
beautiful little design for a table, and I think
it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley’s.”
“Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At present I have not
room to do them justice.”
“Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see
her in January. But do you always write such
charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?”
“They are generally long; but whether always charming it is not for me to determine.”
“It is a rule with me, that a person who can
write a long letter with ease, cannot write ill.”
“That will not do for a compliment to
Darcy, Caroline,” cried her brother, “because
he does not write with ease. He studies too
Chapter 10
65
much for words of four syllables. Do not you,
Darcy?”
“My style of writing is very different from
yours.”
“Oh!” cried Miss Bingley, “Charles writes
in the most careless way imaginable. He
leaves out half his words, and blots the rest.”
“My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not
time to express them—by which means my
letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my
correspondents.”
“Your humility, Mr. Bingley,” said Elizabeth, “must disarm reproof.”
“Nothing is more deceitful,” said Darcy,
“than the appearance of humility. It is often
only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes
an indirect boast.”
“And which of the two do you call my little
recent piece of modesty?”
“The indirect boast; for you are really
proud of your defects in writing, because you
consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of
thought and carelessness of execution, which,
if not estimable, you think at least highly interesting. The power of doing anything with
quickness is always prized much by the possessor, and often without any attention to the
imperfection of the performance. When you
told Mrs. Bennet this morning that if you
ever resolved upon quitting Netherfield you
should be gone in five minutes, you meant
it to be a sort of panegyric, of compliment to
yourself—and yet what is there so very laudable in a precipitance which must leave very
necessary business undone, and can be of no
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Pride and Prejudice
real advantage to yourself or anyone else?”
“Nay,” cried Bingley, “this is too much, to
remember at night all the foolish things that
were said in the morning. And yet, upon my
honour, I believe what I said of myself to be
true, and I believe it at this moment. At least,
therefore, I did not assume the character of
needless precipitance merely to show off before the ladies.”
“I dare say you believed it; but I am by no
means convinced that you would be gone with
such celerity. Your conduct would be quite
as dependent on chance as that of any man
I know; and if, as you were mounting your
horse, a friend were to say, ‘Bingley, you had
better stay till next week,’ you would probably do it, you would probably not go—and at
another word, might stay a month.”
“You have only proved by this,” cried Elizabeth, “that Mr. Bingley did not do justice to
his own disposition. You have shown him off
now much more than he did himself.”
“I am exceedingly gratified,” said Bingley,
“by your converting what my friend says into
a compliment on the sweetness of my temper.
But I am afraid you are giving it a turn which
that gentleman did by no means intend; for
he would certainly think better of me, if under such a circumstance I were to give a flat
denial, and ride off as fast as I could.”
“Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intentions as atoned for
by your obstinacy in adhering to it?”
“Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain
the matter; Darcy must speak for himself.”
Chapter 10
67
“You expect me to account for opinions
which you choose to call mine, but which I
have never acknowledged. Allowing the case,
however, to stand according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet, that
the friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and the delay of his plan,
has merely desired it, asked it without offering one argument in favour of its propriety.”
“To yield readily—easily—to the persuasion of a friend is no merit with you.”
“To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of either.”
“You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow
nothing for the influence of friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often
make one readily yield to a request, without
waiting for arguments to reason one into it. I
am not particularly speaking of such a case as
you have supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may
as well wait, perhaps, till the circumstance occurs before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases between friend and friend, where
one of them is desired by the other to change
a resolution of no very great moment, should
you think ill of that person for complying with
the desire, without waiting to be argued into
it?”
“Will it not be advisable, before we proceed
on this subject, to arrange with rather more
precision the degree of importance which is to
appertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting between the parties?”
68
Pride and Prejudice
“By all means,” cried Bingley; “let us hear
all the particulars, not forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will have
more weight in the argument, Miss Bennet,
than you may be aware of. I assure you, that if
Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with myself, I should not pay him half
so much deference. I declare I do not know
a more awful object than Darcy, on particular
occasions, and in particular places; at his own
house especially, and of a Sunday evening,
when he has nothing to do.”
Mr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought
she could perceive that he was rather offended, and therefore checked her laugh. Miss
Bingley warmly resented the indignity he had
received, in an expostulation with her brother
for talking such nonsense.
“I see your design, Bingley,” said his friend.
“You dislike an argument, and want to silence
this.”
“Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much
like disputes. If you and Miss Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be
very thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me.”
“What you ask,” said Elizabeth, “is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr. Darcy had much better finish his letter.”
Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish
his letter.
When that business was over, he applied
to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth for an indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved
with some alacrity to the pianoforte; and, af-
Chapter 10
69
ter a polite request that Elizabeth would lead
the way which the other as politely and more
earnestly negatived, she seated herself.
Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while
they were thus employed, Elizabeth could
not help observing, as she turned over some
music-books that lay on the instrument, how
frequently Mr. Darcy’s eyes were fixed on her.
She hardly knew how to suppose that she
could be an object of admiration to so great
a man; and yet that he should look at her because he disliked her, was still more strange.
She could only imagine, however, at last that
she drew his notice because there was something more wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in any other person present. The supposition did not pain her.
She liked him too little to care for his approbation.
After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by a lively Scotch air;
and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near
Elizabeth, said to her:
“Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss
Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?”
She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some surprise at her
silence.
“Oh!” said she, “I heard you before, but I
could not immediately determine what to say
in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say ‘Yes,’
that you might have the pleasure of despising
my taste; but I always delight in overthrowing
those kind of schemes, and cheating a person
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Pride and Prejudice
of their premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell you, that I do
not want to dance a reel at all—and now despise me if you dare.”
“Indeed I do not dare.”
Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his gallantry; but
there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in her manner which made it difficult for
her to affront anybody; and Darcy had never
been so bewitched by any woman as he was by
her. He really believed, that were it not for the
inferiority of her connections, he should be in
some danger.
Miss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to
be jealous; and her great anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received some assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth.
She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of their supposed
marriage, and planning his happiness in such
an alliance.
“I hope,” said she, as they were walking
together in the shrubbery the next day, “you
will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when
this desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue; and if you can
compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after officers. And, if I may mention so
delicate a subject, endeavour to check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence, which your lady possesses.”
“Have you anything else to propose for my
domestic felicity?”
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71
“Oh! yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Phillips be placed in the gallery
at Pemberley. Put them next to your greatuncle the judge. They are in the same profession, you know, only in different lines. As for
your Elizabeth’s picture, you must not have
it taken, for what painter could do justice to
those beautiful eyes?”
“It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their
expression, but their colour and shape, and
the eyelashes, so remarkably fine, might be
copied.”
At that moment they were met from another walk by Mrs. Hurst and Elizabeth herself.
“I did not know that you intended to walk,”
said Miss Bingley, in some confusion, lest they
had been overheard.
“You used us abominably ill,” answered
Mrs. Hurst, “running away without telling us
that you were coming out.”
Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr.
Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk by herself.
The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt
their rudeness, and immediately said:
“This walk is not wide enough for our
party. We had better go into the avenue.”
But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them, laughingly answered:
“No, no; stay where you are. You are
charmingly grouped, and appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be
spoilt by admitting a fourth. Good-bye.”
She then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she
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rambled about, in the hope of being at home
again in a day or two. Jane was already so
much recovered as to intend leaving her room
for a couple of hours that evening.
Chapter 11
When the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her sister, and seeing her
well guarded from cold, attended her into
the drawing-room, where she was welcomed
by her two friends with many professions of
pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them
so agreeable as they were during the hour
which passed before the gentlemen appeared.
Their powers of conversation were considerable. They could describe an entertainment
with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh at their acquaintance with
spirit.
But when the gentlemen entered, Jane
was no longer the first object; Miss Bingley’s
eyes were instantly turned toward Darcy, and
she had something to say to him before he had
advanced many steps. He addressed himself
to Miss Bennet, with a polite congratulation;
Mr. Hurst also made her a slight bow, and
said he was “very glad;” but diffuseness and
warmth remained for Bingley’s salutation. He
was full of joy and attention. The first halfhour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she
should suffer from the change of room; and
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she removed at his desire to the other side of
the fireplace, that she might be further from
the door. He then sat down by her, and talked
scarcely to anyone else. Elizabeth, at work in
the opposite corner, saw it all with great delight.
When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded
his sister-in-law of the card-table—but in
vain. She had obtained private intelligence
that Mr. Darcy did not wish for cards; and Mr.
Hurst soon found even his open petition rejected. She assured him that no one intended
to play, and the silence of the whole party on
the subject seemed to justify her. Mr. Hurst
had therefore nothing to do, but to stretch
himself on one of the sofas and go to sleep.
Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the
same; and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in
playing with her bracelets and rings, joined
now and then in her brother’s conversation
with Miss Bennet.
Miss Bingley’s attention was quite as
much engaged in watching Mr. Darcy’s
progress through his book, as in reading her
own; and she was perpetually either making
some inquiry, or looking at his page. She could
not win him, however, to any conversation; he
merely answered her question, and read on.
At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to
be amused with her own book, which she had
only chosen because it was the second volume
of his, she gave a great yawn and said, “How
pleasant it is to spend an evening in this way!
I declare after all there is no enjoyment like
reading! How much sooner one tires of any-
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75
thing than of a book! When I have a house of
my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an
excellent library.”
No one made any reply. She then yawned
again, threw aside her book, and cast her eyes
round the room in quest for some amusement;
when hearing her brother mentioning a ball
to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly towards
him and said:
“By the bye, Charles, are you really serious
in meditating a dance at Netherfield? I would
advise you, before you determine on it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I am
much mistaken if there are not some among
us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure.”
“If you mean Darcy,” cried her brother,
“he may go to bed, if he chooses, before it
begins—but as for the ball, it is quite a settled
thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white
soup enough, I shall send round my cards.”
“I should like balls infinitely better,” she
replied, “if they were carried on in a different
manner; but there is something insufferably
tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much more rational
if conversation instead of dancing were made
the order of the day.”
“Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I
dare say, but it would not be near so much like
a ball.”
Miss Bingley made no answer, and soon
afterwards she got up and walked about the
room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked
well; but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was
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still inflexibly studious. In the desperation of
her feelings, she resolved on one effort more,
and, turning to Elizabeth, said:
“Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to
follow my example, and take a turn about the
room. I assure you it is very refreshing after
sitting so long in one attitude.”
Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it
immediately. Miss Bingley succeeded no less
in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy
looked up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as Elizabeth
herself could be, and unconsciously closed
his book. He was directly invited to join
their party, but he declined it, observing that
he could imagine but two motives for their
choosing to walk up and down the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would interfere. “What could he
mean? She was dying to know what could be
his meaning?”—and asked Elizabeth whether
she could at all understand him?
“Not at all,” was her answer; “but depend
upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our
surest way of disappointing him will be to ask
nothing about it.”
Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of
disappointing Mr. Darcy in anything, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation
of his two motives.
“I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,” said he, as soon as she allowed him to speak. “You either choose this
method of passing the evening because you
are in each other’s confidence, and have se-
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77
cret affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking; if the first, I would
be completely in your way, and if the second,
I can admire you much better as I sit by the
fire.”
“Oh! shocking!” cried Miss Bingley. “I
never heard anything so abominable. How
shall we punish him for such a speech?”
“Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,” said Elizabeth. “We can all plague
and punish one another. Tease him—laugh at
him. Intimate as you are, you must know how
it is to be done.”
“But upon my honour, I do not. I do assure
you that my intimacy has not yet taught me
that. Tease calmness of manner and presence
of mind! No, no—feel he may defy us there.
And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh
without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself.”
“Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!” cried
Elizabeth. “That is an uncommon advantage,
and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it
would be a great loss to me to have many such
acquaintances. I dearly love a laugh.”
“Miss Bingley,” said he, “has given me
more credit than can be. The wisest and the
best of men—nay, the wisest and best of their
actions—may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke.”
“Certainly,” replied Elizabeth—“there are
such people, but I hope I am not one of them.
I hope I never ridicule what is wise and good.
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Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, do divert me, I own, and I laugh at them
whenever I can. But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without.”
“Perhaps that is not possible for anyone.
But it has been the study of my life to avoid
those weaknesses which often expose a strong
understanding to ridicule.”
“Such as vanity and pride.”
“Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But
pride—where there is a real superiority of
mind, pride will be always under good regulation.”
Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.
“Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I
presume,” said Miss Bingley; “and pray what
is the result?”
“I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr.
Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise.”
“No,” said Darcy, “I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are
not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I
dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding—certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor
their offenses against myself. My feelings are
not puffed about with every attempt to move
them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost forever.”
“That is a failing indeed!” cried Elizabeth.
“Implacable resentment is a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I
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79
really cannot laugh at it. You are safe from
me.”
“There is, I believe, in every disposition a
tendency to some particular evil—a natural
defect, which not even the best education can
overcome.”
“And your defect is to hate everybody.”
“And yours,” he replied with a smile, “is
willfully to misunderstand them.”
“Do let us have a little music,” cried Miss
Bingley, tired of a conversation in which she
had no share. “Louisa, you will not mind my
waking Mr. Hurst?”
Her sister had not the smallest objection,
and the pianoforte was opened; and Darcy, after a few moments’ recollection, was not sorry
for it. He began to feel the danger of paying
Elizabeth too much attention.
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Chapter 12
In consequence of an agreement between the
sisters, Elizabeth wrote the next morning to
their mother, to beg that the carriage might
be sent for them in the course of the day.
But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on her
daughters remaining at Netherfield till the
following Tuesday, which would exactly finish Jane’s week, could not bring herself to
receive them with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at least
not to Elizabeth’s wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs. Bennet sent them
word that they could not possibly have the carriage before Tuesday; and in her postscript it
was added, that if Mr. Bingley and his sister
pressed them to stay longer, she could spare
them very well. Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively resolved—nor
did she much expect it would be asked; and
fearful, on the contrary, as being considered
as intruding themselves needlessly long, she
urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley’s carriage
immediately, and at length it was settled that
their original design of leaving Netherfield
that morning should be mentioned, and the
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Pride and Prejudice
request made.
The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day
to work on Jane; and till the morrow their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was then sorry
that she had proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike of one sister much exceeded
her affection for the other.
The master of the house heard with real
sorrow that they were to go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that
it would not be safe for her—that she was not
enough recovered; but Jane was firm where
she felt herself to be right.
To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence—Elizabeth had been at Netherfield long
enough. She attracted him more than he
liked—and Miss Bingley was uncivil to her,
and more teasing than usual to himself. He
wisely resolved to be particularly careful that
no sign of admiration should now escape him,
nothing that could elevate her with the hope
of influencing his felicity; sensible that if
such an idea had been suggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight in confirming or crushing it.
Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke ten
words to her through the whole of Saturday,
and though they were at one time left by
themselves for half-an-hour, he adhered most
conscientiously to his book, and would not
even look at her.
On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost all, took place.
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83
Miss Bingley’s civility to Elizabeth increased
at last very rapidly, as well as her affection for
Jane; and when they parted, after assuring
the latter of the pleasure it would always give
her to see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most tenderly, she
even shook hands with the former. Elizabeth
took leave of the whole party in the liveliest of
spirits.
They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet wondered
at their coming, and thought them very wrong
to give so much trouble, and was sure Jane
would have caught cold again. But their father, though very laconic in his expressions of
pleasure, was really glad to see them; he had
felt their importance in the family circle. The
evening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of its animation, and
almost all its sense by the absence of Jane and
Elizabeth.
They found Mary, as usual, deep in the
study of thorough-bass and human nature;
and had some extracts to admire, and some
new observations of threadbare morality to
listen to. Catherine and Lydia had information for them of a different sort. Much had
been done and much had been said in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several
of the officers had dined lately with their uncle, a private had been flogged, and it had actually been hinted that colonel Foster was going to be married.
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Chapter 13
“I hope, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet to his wife,
as they were at breakfast the next morning,
“that you have ordered a good dinner to-day,
because I have reason to expect an addition to
our family party.”
“Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am sure, unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in—and I
hope my dinners are good enough for her. I
do not believe she often sees such at home.”
“The person of whom I speak is a gentleman, and a stranger.”
Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled. “A gentleman
and a stranger! It is Mr. Bingley, I am sure!
Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad to see
Mr. Bingley. But—good Lord! how unlucky!
There is not a bit of fish to be got to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell—I must speak to
Hill this moment.”
“It is not Mr. Bingley,” said her husband;
“it is a person whom I never saw in the whole
course of my life.”
This roused a general astonishment; and
he had the pleasure of being eagerly questioned by his wife and his five daughters at
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once.
After amusing himself some time with
their curiosity, he thus explained:
“About a month ago I received this letter;
and about a fortnight ago I answered it, for I
thought it a case of some delicacy, and requiring early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr.
Collins, who, when I am dead, may turn you
all out of this house as soon as he pleases.”
“Oh! my dear,” cried his wife, “I cannot
bear to hear that mentioned. Pray do not talk
of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest
thing in the world, that your estate should be
entailed away from your own children; and I
am sure, if I had been you, I should have tried
long ago to do something or other about it.”
Jane and Elizabeth tried to explain to her
the nature of an entail. They had often attempted to do it before, but it was a subject
on which Mrs. Bennet was beyond the reach
of reason, and she continued to rail bitterly
against the cruelty of settling an estate away
from a family of five daughters, in favour of a
man whom nobody cared anything about.
“It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,”
said Mr. Bennet, “and nothing can clear Mr.
Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn. But if you will listen to his letter, you
may perhaps be a little softened by his manner of expressing himself.”
“No, that I am sure I shall not; and I think
it is very impertinent of him to write to you
at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false
friends. Why could he not keep on quarreling
with you, as his father did before him?”
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87
“Why, indeed; he does seem to have had
some filial scruples on that head, as you will
hear.
“‘Hunsford, near
“‘Westerham, Kent,
“‘15th October.
“‘D EAR S IR,—
“‘The disagreement subsisting
between yourself and my late honoured father always gave me much
uneasiness, and since I have had
the misfortune to lose him, I
have frequently wished to heal
the breach; but for some time I
was kept back by my own doubts,
fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me
to be on good terms with anyone
with whom it had always pleased
him to be at variance.’—There,
Mrs. Bennet.—‘My mind, however,
is now made up on the subject,
for having received ordination at
Easter, I have been so fortunate
as to be distinguished by the patronage of the Right Honourable
Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow
of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, whose
bounty and beneficence has preferred me to the valuable rectory
of this parish, where it shall be my
earnest endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect towards
her ladyship, and be ever ready
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Pride and Prejudice
to perform those rites and ceremonies which are instituted by the
Church of England. As a clergyman, moreover, I feel it my duty
to promote and establish the blessing of peace in all families within
in the reach of my influence; and on
these grounds I flatter myself that
my present overtures are highly
commendable, and that the circumstance of my being next in the entail of Longbourn estate will be
kindly overlooked on your side, and
not lead you to reject the offered
olive-branch. I cannot be otherwise
than concerned at being the means
of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise
for it, as well as to assure you of
my readiness to make them every
possible amends—but of this hereafter. If you should have no objection to receive me into your house,
I propose myself the satisfaction
of waiting on you and your family,
Monday, November 18th, by four
o’clock, and shall probably trespass
on your hospitality till the Saturday se’ennight following, which I
can do without any inconvenience,
as Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my occasional absence
on a Sunday, provided that some
other clergyman is engaged to do
the duty of the day.—I remain, dear
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89
sir, with respectful compliments to
your lady and daughters, your wellwisher and friend,
“‘W ILLIAM C OLLINS’
“At four o’clock, therefore, we may expect this
peace-making gentleman,” said Mr. Bennet,
as he folded up the letter. “He seems to be
a most conscientious and polite young man,
upon my word, and I doubt not will prove
a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady
Catherine should be so indulgent as to let him
come to us again.”
“There is some sense in what he says about
the girls, however, and if he is disposed to
make them any amends, I shall not be the person to discourage him.”
“Though it is difficult,” said Jane, “to guess
in what way he can mean to make us the
atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his credit.”
Elizabeth was chiefly struck by his extraordinary deference for Lady Catherine, and his
kind intention of christening, marrying, and
burying his parishioners whenever it were required.
“He must be an oddity, I think,” said she.
“I cannot make him out.—There is something
very pompous in his style.—And what can
he mean by apologising for being next in the
entail?—We cannot suppose he would help it
if he could.—Could he be a sensible man, sir?”
“No, my dear, I think not. I have great
hopes of finding him quite the reverse. There
is a mixture of servility and self-importance
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Pride and Prejudice
in his letter, which promises well. I am impatient to see him.”
“In point of composition,” said Mary, “the
letter does not seem defective. The idea of the
olive-branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I
think it is well expressed.”
To Catherine and Lydia, neither the letter nor its writer were in any degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their
cousin should come in a scarlet coat, and it
was now some weeks since they had received
pleasure from the society of a man in any
other colour. As for their mother, Mr. Collins’s
letter had done away much of her ill-will, and
she was preparing to see him with a degree of
composure which astonished her husband and
daughters.
Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and
was received with great politeness by the
whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little;
but the ladies were ready enough to talk, and
Mr. Collins seemed neither in need of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He
was a tall, heavy-looking young man of fiveand-twenty. His air was grave and stately,
and his manners were very formal. He had
not been long seated before he complimented
Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of
daughters; said he had heard much of their
beauty, but that in this instance fame had
fallen short of the truth; and added, that he
did not doubt her seeing them all in due time
disposed of in marriage. This gallantry was
not much to the taste of some of his hearers;
but Mrs. Bennet, who quarreled with no com-
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91
pliments, answered most readily.
“You are very kind, I am sure; and I wish
with all my heart it may prove so, for else they
will be destitute enough. Things are settled so
oddly.”
“You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this
estate.”
“Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair
to my poor girls, you must confess. Not that I
mean to find fault with you, for such things I
know are all chance in this world. There is no
knowing how estates will go when once they
come to be entailed.”
“I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins, and could say much on
the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing forward and precipitate. But I can assure
the young ladies that I come prepared to admire them. At present I will not say more; but,
perhaps, when we are better acquainted—”
He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each other. They
were not the only objects of Mr. Collins’ admiration. The hall, the dining-room, and all
its furniture, were examined and praised; and
his commendation of everything would have
touched Mrs. Bennet’s heart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his
own future property. The dinner too in its turn
was highly admired; and he begged to know to
which of his fair cousins the excellency of its
cooking was owing. But he was set right there
by Mrs. Bennet, who assured him with some
asperity that they were very well able to keep
a good cook, and that her daughters had noth-
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ing to do in the kitchen. He begged pardon
for having displeased her. In a softened tone
she declared herself not at all offended; but
he continued to apologise for about a quarter
of an hour.
Chapter 14
During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at
all; but when the servants were withdrawn,
he thought it time to have some conversation
with his guest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to shine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his
patroness. Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s attention to his wishes, and consideration for
his comfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr.
Bennet could not have chosen better. Mr.
Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him to more than usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important
aspect he protested that “he had never in his
life witnessed such behaviour in a person of
rank—such affability and condescension, as
he had himself experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to approve of both of the discourses which he had
already had the honour of preaching before
her. She had also asked him twice to dine at
Rosings, and had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of quadrille
in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned
proud by many people he knew, but he had
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Pride and Prejudice
never seen anything but affability in her. She
had always spoken to him as she would to any
other gentleman; she made not the smallest
objection to his joining in the society of the
neighbourhood nor to his leaving the parish
occasionally for a week or two, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to advise
him to marry as soon as he could, provided
he chose with discretion; and had once paid
him a visit in his humble parsonage, where
she had perfectly approved all the alterations
he had been making, and had even vouchsafed
to suggest some herself—some shelves in the
closet upstairs.”
“That is all very proper and civil, I am
sure,” said Mrs. Bennet, “and I dare say she
is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that
great ladies in general are not more like her.
Does she live near you, sir?”
“The garden in which stands my humble
abode is separated only by a lane from Rosings Park, her ladyship’s residence.”
“I think you said she was a widow, sir? Has
she any family?”
“She has only one daughter, the heiress of
Rosings, and of very extensive property.”
“Ah!” said Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head,
“then she is better off than many girls. And
what sort of young lady is she? Is she handsome?”
“She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says that, in
point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far superior to the handsomest of her sex, because
there is that in her features which marks the
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95
young lady of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly constitution, which has
prevented her from making that progress in
many accomplishments which she could not
have otherwise failed of, as I am informed
by the lady who superintended her education,
and who still resides with them. But she
is perfectly amiable, and often condescends
to drive by my humble abode in her little
phaeton and ponies.”
“Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at court.”
“Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town; and by that
means, as I told Lady Catherine one day, has
deprived the British court of its brightest ornaments. Her ladyship seemed pleased with
the idea; and you may imagine that I am
happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess,
and that the most elevated rank, instead of
giving her consequence, would be adorned by
her. These are the kind of little things which
please her ladyship, and it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound
to pay.”
“You judge very properly,” said Mr. Bennet, “and it is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May
I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are
the result of previous study?”
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“They arise chiefly from what is passing at
the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little
elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them
as unstudied an air as possible.”
Mr. Bennet’s expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd as he had
hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time
the most resolute composure of countenance,
and, except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his pleasure.
By tea-time, however, the dose had been
enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad to take his
guest into the drawing-room again, and, when
tea was over, glad to invite him to read aloud
to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented,
and a book was produced; but, on beholding
it (for everything announced it to be from a
circulating library), he started back, and begging pardon, protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at him, and Lydia exclaimed.
Other books were produced, and after some
deliberation he chose Fordyce’s Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and before
he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read
three pages, she interrupted him with:
“Do you know, mamma, that my uncle
Phillips talks of turning away Richard; and
if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him.
My aunt told me so herself on Saturday. I
shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more
about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes
back from town.”
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Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to
hold her tongue; but Mr. Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said:
“I have often observed how little young
ladies are interested by books of a serious
stamp, though written solely for their benefit.
It amazes me, I confess; for, certainly, there
can be nothing so advantageous to them as instruction. But I will no longer importune my
young cousin.”
Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered
himself as his antagonist at backgammon. Mr.
Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that
he acted very wisely in leaving the girls to
their own trifling amusements. Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly
for Lydia’s interruption, and promised that it
should not occur again, if he would resume
his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them
that he bore his young cousin no ill-will, and
should never resent her behaviour as any affront, seated himself at another table with Mr.
Bennet, and prepared for backgammon.
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Pride and Prejudice
Chapter 15
Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the
deficiency of nature had been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest
part of his life having been spent under the
guidance of an illiterate and miserly father;
and though he belonged to one of the universities, he had merely kept the necessary terms,
without forming at it any useful acquaintance. The subjection in which his father had
brought him up had given him originally great
humility of manner; but it was now a good
deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak
head, living in retirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected prosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him
to Lady Catherine de Bourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect
which he felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness, mingling with
a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a clergyman, and his right as a rector,
made him altogether a mixture of pride and
obsequiousness, self-importance and humility.
Having now a good house and a very sufficient income, he intended to marry; and in
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seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn
family he had a wife in view, as he meant
to choose one of the daughters, if he found
them as handsome and amiable as they were
represented by common report. This was his
plan of amends—of atonement—for inheriting
their father’s estate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and suitableness,
and excessively generous and disinterested on
his own part.
His plan did not vary on seeing them. Miss
Bennet’s lovely face confirmed his views, and
established all his strictest notions of what
was due to seniority; and for the first evening
she was his settled choice. The next morning,
however, made an alteration; for in a quarter
of an hour’s tete-a-tete with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a conversation beginning with
his parsonage-house, and leading naturally
to the avowal of his hopes, that a mistress
might be found for it at Longbourn, produced
from her, amid very complaisant smiles and
general encouragement, a caution against the
very Jane he had fixed on. “As to her younger
daughters, she could not take upon her to
say—she could not positively answer—but she
did not know of any prepossession; her eldest
daughter, she must just mention—she felt it
incumbent on her to hint, was likely to be very
soon engaged.”
Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to
Elizabeth—and it was soon done—done while
Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire. Elizabeth,
equally next to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded her of course.
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Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and
trusted that she might soon have two daughters married; and the man whom she could
not bear to speak of the day before was now
high in her good graces.
Lydia’s intention of walking to Meryton
was not forgotten; every sister except Mary
agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was
to attend them, at the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious to get rid of him,
and have his library to himself; for thither
Mr. Collins had followed him after breakfast;
and there he would continue, nominally engaged with one of the largest folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr. Bennet, with
little cessation, of his house and garden at
Hunsford. Such doings discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been
always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and
though prepared, as he told Elizabeth, to meet
with folly and conceit in every other room of
the house, he was used to be free from them
there; his civility, therefore, was most prompt
in inviting Mr. Collins to join his daughters
in their walk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact
much better fitted for a walker than a reader,
was extremely pleased to close his large book,
and go.
In pompous nothings on his side, and civil
assents on that of his cousins, their time
passed till they entered Meryton. The attention of the younger ones was then no longer
to be gained by him. Their eyes were immediately wandering up in the street in quest
of the officers, and nothing less than a very
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smart bonnet indeed, or a really new muslin
in a shop window, could recall them.
But the attention of every lady was soon
caught by a young man, whom they had never
seen before, of most gentlemanlike appearance, walking with another officer on the
other side of the way. The officer was the
very Mr. Denny concerning whose return from
London Lydia came to inquire, and he bowed
as they passed. All were struck with the
stranger’s air, all wondered who he could be;
and Kitty and Lydia, determined if possible
to find out, led the way across the street, under pretense of wanting something in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained
the pavement when the two gentlemen, turning back, had reached the same spot. Mr.
Denny addressed them directly, and entreated
permission to introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with him the day before from town, and he was happy to say had
accepted a commission in their corps. This
was exactly as it should be; for the young
man wanted only regimentals to make him
completely charming. His appearance was
greatly in his favour; he had all the best part
of beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure,
and very pleasing address. The introduction
was followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation—a readiness at the same
time perfectly correct and unassuming; and
the whole party were still standing and talking together very agreeably, when the sound
of horses drew their notice, and Darcy and
Bingley were seen riding down the street. On
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distinguishing the ladies of the group, the two
gentlemen came directly towards them, and
began the usual civilities. Bingley was the
principal spokesman, and Miss Bennet the
principal object. He was then, he said, on
his way to Longbourn on purpose to inquire
after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated it with a
bow, and was beginning to determine not to
fix his eyes on Elizabeth, when they were suddenly arrested by the sight of the stranger,
and Elizabeth happening to see the countenance of both as they looked at each other,
was all astonishment at the effect of the meeting. Both changed colour, one looked white,
the other red. Mr. Wickham, after a few moments, touched his hat—a salutation which
Mr. Darcy just deigned to return. What could
be the meaning of it? It was impossible to
imagine; it was impossible not to long to know.
In another minute, Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have noticed what passed, took
leave and rode on with his friend.
Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with
the young ladies to the door of Mr. Phillip’s
house, and then made their bows, in spite
of Miss Lydia’s pressing entreaties that they
should come in, and even in spite of Mrs.
Phillips’s throwing up the parlour window
and loudly seconding the invitation.
Mrs. Phillips was always glad to see her
nieces; and the two eldest, from their recent
absence, were particularly welcome, and she
was eagerly expressing her surprise at their
sudden return home, which, as their own carriage had not fetched them, she should have
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known nothing about, if she had not happened
to see Mr. Jones’s shop-boy in the street,
who had told her that they were not to send
any more draughts to Netherfield because the
Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility was claimed towards Mr. Collins by Jane’s
introduction of him. She received him with
her very best politeness, which he returned
with as much more, apologising for his intrusion, without any previous acquaintance with
her, which he could not help flattering himself, however, might be justified by his relationship to the young ladies who introduced
him to her notice. Mrs. Phillips was quite
awed by such an excess of good breeding; but
her contemplation of one stranger was soon
put to an end by exclamations and inquiries
about the other; of whom, however, she could
only tell her nieces what they already knew,
that Mr. Denny had brought him from London, and that he was to have a lieutenant’s
commission in the ——shire. She had been
watching him the last hour, she said, as he
walked up and down the street, and had Mr.
Wickham appeared, Kitty and Lydia would
certainly have continued the occupation, but
unluckily no one passed windows now except
a few of the officers, who, in comparison with
the stranger, were become “stupid, disagreeable fellows.” Some of them were to dine with
the Phillipses the next day, and their aunt
promised to make her husband call on Mr.
Wickham, and give him an invitation also,
if the family from Longbourn would come in
the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs.
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Phillips protested that they would have a nice
comfortable noisy game of lottery tickets, and
a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The
prospect of such delights was very cheering,
and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr.
Collins repeated his apologies in quitting the
room, and was assured with unwearying civility that they were perfectly needless.
As they walked home, Elizabeth related to
Jane what she had seen pass between the two
gentlemen; but though Jane would have defended either or both, had they appeared to be
in the wrong, she could no more explain such
behaviour than her sister.
Mr. Collins on his return highly gratified
Mrs. Bennet by admiring Mrs. Phillips’s manners and politeness. He protested that, except Lady Catherine and her daughter, he had
never seen a more elegant woman; for she had
not only received him with the utmost civility,
but even pointedly included him in her invitation for the next evening, although utterly
unknown to her before. Something, he supposed, might be attributed to his connection
with them, but yet he had never met with so
much attention in the whole course of his life.
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Chapter 16
As no objection was made to the young people’s engagement with their aunt, and all Mr.
Collins’s scruples of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for a single evening during his visit were
most steadily resisted, the coach conveyed
him and his five cousins at a suitable hour
to Meryton; and the girls had the pleasure
of hearing, as they entered the drawing-room,
that Mr. Wickham had accepted their uncle’s
invitation, and was then in the house.
When this information was given, and they
had all taken their seats, Mr. Collins was at
leisure to look around him and admire, and
he was so much struck with the size and
furniture of the apartment, that he declared
he might almost have supposed himself in
the small summer breakfast parlour at Rosings; a comparison that did not at first convey
much gratification; but when Mrs. Phillips
understood from him what Rosings was, and
who was its proprietor—when she had listened to the description of only one of Lady
Catherine’s drawing-rooms, and found that
the chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all the force of the com-
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pliment, and would hardly have resented a
comparison with the housekeeper’s room.
In describing to her all the grandeur of
Lady Catherine and her mansion, with occasional digressions in praise of his own humble
abode, and the improvements it was receiving,
he was happily employed until the gentlemen
joined them; and he found in Mrs. Phillips a
very attentive listener, whose opinion of his
consequence increased with what she heard,
and who was resolving to retail it all among
her neighbours as soon as she could. To the
girls, who could not listen to their cousin, and
who had nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and examine their own indifferent
imitations of china on the mantelpiece, the interval of waiting appeared very long. It was
over at last, however. The gentlemen did approach, and when Mr. Wickham walked into
the room, Elizabeth felt that she had neither
been seeing him before, nor thinking of him
since, with the smallest degree of unreasonable admiration. The officers of the ——shire
were in general a very creditable, gentlemanlike set, and the best of them were of the
present party; but Mr. Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and
walk, as they were superior to the broad-faced,
stuffy uncle Phillips, breathing port wine, who
followed them into the room.
Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards
whom almost every female eye was turned,
and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom
he finally seated himself; and the agreeable
manner in which he immediately fell into con-
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versation, though it was only on its being a
wet night, made her feel that the commonest,
dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered interesting by the skill of the speaker.
With such rivals for the notice of the fair
as Mr. Wickham and the officers, Mr. Collins
seemed to sink into insignificance; to the
young ladies he certainly was nothing; but he
had still at intervals a kind listener in Mrs.
Phillips, and was by her watchfulness, most
abundantly supplied with coffee and muffin.
When the card-tables were placed, he had the
opportunity of obliging her in turn, by sitting
down to whist.
“I know little of the game at present,” said
he, “but I shall be glad to improve myself, for
in my situation in life—” Mrs. Phillips was
very glad for his compliance, but could not
wait for his reason.
Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and
with ready delight was he received at the
other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At
first there seemed danger of Lydia’s engrossing him entirely, for she was a most determined talker; but being likewise extremely
fond of lottery tickets, she soon grew too much
interested in the game, too eager in making
bets and exclaiming after prizes to have attention for anyone in particular. Allowing for the
common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham
was therefore at leisure to talk to Elizabeth,
and she was very willing to hear him, though
what she chiefly wished to hear she could not
hope to be told—the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not even
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mention that gentleman. Her curiosity, however, was unexpectedly relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired
how far Netherfield was from Meryton; and,
after receiving her answer, asked in a hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been
staying there.
“About a month,” said Elizabeth; and then,
unwilling to let the subject drop, added, “He
is a man of very large property in Derbyshire,
I understand.”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Wickham; “his estate
there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per
annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself, for I have
been connected with his family in a particular
manner from my infancy.”
Elizabeth could not but look surprised.
“You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet,
at such an assertion, after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday. Are you much acquainted with
Mr. Darcy?”
“As much as I ever wish to be,” cried Elizabeth very warmly. “I have spent four days
in the same house with him, and I think him
very disagreeable.”
“I have no right to give my opinion,” said
Wickham, “as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have
known him too long and too well to be a fair
judge. It is impossible for me to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would
in general astonish—and perhaps you would
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not express it quite so strongly anywhere else.
Here you are in your own family.”
“Upon my word, I say no more here than
I might say in any house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all
liked in Hertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him
more favourably spoken of by anyone.”
“I cannot pretend to be sorry,” said Wickham, after a short interruption, “that he or
that any man should not be estimated beyond
their deserts; but with him I believe it does
not often happen. The world is blinded by
his fortune and consequence, or frightened by
his high and imposing manners, and sees him
only as he chooses to be seen.”
“I should take him, even on my slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man.” Wickham only shook his head.
“I wonder,” said he, at the next opportunity
of speaking, “whether he is likely to be in this
country much longer.”
“I do not at all know; but I heard nothing
of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I
hope your plans in favour of the ——shire will
not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.”
“Oh! no—it is not for me to be driven away
by Mr. Darcy. If he wishes to avoid seeing me,
he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and
it always gives me pain to meet him, but I
have no reason for avoiding him but what I
might proclaim before all the world, a sense of
very great ill-usage, and most painful regrets
at his being what he is. His father, Miss Ben-
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net, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best
men that ever breathed, and the truest friend
I ever had; and I can never be in company
with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to
the soul by a thousand tender recollections.
His behaviour to myself has been scandalous;
but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory
of his father.”
Elizabeth found the interest of the subject
increase, and listened with all her heart; but
the delicacy of it prevented further inquiry.
Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood, the
society, appearing highly pleased with all that
he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter
with gentle but very intelligible gallantry.
“It was the prospect of constant society,
and good society,” he added, “which was my
chief inducement to enter the ——shire. I
knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable
corps, and my friend Denny tempted me further by his account of their present quarters,
and the very great attentions and excellent acquaintances Meryton had procured them. Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been
a disappointed man, and my spirits will not
bear solitude. I must have employment and
society. A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have now made
it eligible. The church ought to have been my
profession—I was brought up for the church,
and I should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased
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the gentleman we were speaking of just now.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes—the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me
the next presentation of the best living in his
gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and
thought he had done it; but when the living
fell, it was given elsewhere.”
“Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth; “but how
could that be? How could his will be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal redress?”
“There was just such an informality in the
terms of the bequest as to give me no hope
from law. A man of honour could not have
doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose
to doubt it—or to treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert that I
had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance,
imprudence—in short anything or nothing.
Certain it is, that the living became vacant
two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to
hold it, and that it was given to another man;
and no less certain is it, that I cannot accuse
myself of having really done anything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded
temper, and I may have spoken my opinion of
him, and to him, too freely. I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very
different sort of men, and that he hates me.”
“This is quite shocking! He deserves to be
publicly disgraced.”
“Some time or other he will be—but it shall
not be by me. Till I can forget his father, I can
never defy or expose him.”
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Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings,
and thought him handsomer than ever as he
expressed them.
“But what,” said she, after a pause, “can
have been his motive? What can have induced
him to behave so cruelly?”
“A thorough, determined dislike of me—a
dislike which I cannot but attribute in some
measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy
liked me less, his son might have borne with
me better; but his father’s uncommon attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very early
in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort
of competition in which we stood—the sort of
preference which was often given me.”
“I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as
this—though I have never liked him. I had not
thought so very ill of him. I had supposed him
to be despising his fellow-creatures in general,
but did not suspect him of descending to such
malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this.”
After a few minutes’ reflection, however,
she continued, “I do remember his boasting
one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of
his resentments, of his having an unforgiving
temper. His disposition must be dreadful.”
“I will not trust myself on the subject,”
replied Wickham; “I can hardly be just to
him.”
Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and
after a time exclaimed, “To treat in such a
manner the godson, the friend, the favourite
of his father!” She could have added, “A young
man, too, like you, whose very countenance
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may vouch for your being amiable”—but she
contented herself with, “and one, too, who had
probably been his companion from childhood,
connected together, as I think you said, in the
closest manner!”
“We were born in the same parish, within
the same park; the greatest part of our youth
was passed together; inmates of the same
house, sharing the same amusements, objects
of the same parental care. My father began
life in the profession which your uncle, Mr.
Phillips, appears to do so much credit to—but
he gave up everything to be of use to the late
Mr. Darcy and devoted all his time to the
care of the Pemberley property. He was most
highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to be under the greatest
obligations to my father’s active superintendence, and when, immediately before my father’s death, Mr. Darcy gave him a voluntary
promise of providing for me, I am convinced
that he felt it to be as much a debt of gratitude to him, as of his affection to myself.”
“How strange!” cried Elizabeth. “How
abominable! I wonder that the very pride of
this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you!
If from no better motive, that he should not
have been too proud to be dishonest—for dishonesty I must call it.”
“It is wonderful,” replied Wickham, “for almost all his actions may be traced to pride;
and pride had often been his best friend. It
has connected him nearer with virtue than
with any other feeling. But we are none of us
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consistent, and in his behaviour to me there
were stronger impulses even than pride.”
“Can such abominable pride as his have
ever done him good?”
“Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and
generous, to give his money freely, to display
hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve
the poor. Family pride, and filial pride—for
he is very proud of what his father was—have
done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family,
to degenerate from the popular qualities, or
lose the influence of the Pemberley House, is a
powerful motive. He has also brotherly pride,
which, with some brotherly affection, makes
him a very kind and careful guardian of his
sister, and you will hear him generally cried
up as the most attentive and best of brothers.”
“What sort of girl is Miss Darcy?”
He shook his head. “I wish I could call
her amiable. It gives me pain to speak ill
of a Darcy. But she is too much like her
brother—very, very proud. As a child, she was
affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond
of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to
her amusement. But she is nothing to me now.
She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and, I understand, highly accomplished.
Since her father’s death, her home has been
London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her education.”
After many pauses and many trials of
other subjects, Elizabeth could not help reverting once more to the first, and saying:
“I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr.
Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley, who seems
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good humour itself, and is, I really believe,
truly amiable, be in friendship with such a
man? How can they suit each other? Do you
know Mr. Bingley?”
“Not at all.”
“He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr. Darcy is.”
“Probably not; but Mr. Darcy can please
where he chooses. He does not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if
he thinks it worth his while. Among those
who are at all his equals in consequence, he
is a very different man from what he is to
the less prosperous. His pride never deserts
him; but with the rich he is liberal-minded,
just, sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable—allowing something for fortune and figure.”
The whist party soon afterwards breaking
up, the players gathered round the other table and Mr. Collins took his station between
his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Phillips. The
usual inquiries as to his success was made by
the latter. It had not been very great; he had
lost every point; but when Mrs. Phillips began
to express her concern thereupon, he assured
her with much earnest gravity that it was not
of the least importance, that he considered the
money as a mere trifle, and begged that she
would not make herself uneasy.
“I know very well, madam,” said he, “that
when persons sit down to a card-table, they
must take their chances of these things, and
happily I am not in such circumstances as to
make five shillings any object. There are un-
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doubtedly many who could not say the same,
but thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am
removed far beyond the necessity of regarding
little matters.”
Mr. Wickham’s attention was caught; and
after observing Mr. Collins for a few moments,
he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her
relation was very intimately acquainted with
the family of de Bourgh.
“Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” she replied,
“has very lately given him a living. I hardly
know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to
her notice, but he certainly has not known her
long.”
“You know of course that Lady Catherine
de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters;
consequently that she is aunt to the present
Mr. Darcy.”
“No, indeed, I did not. I knew nothing at
all of Lady Catherine’s connections. I never
heard of her existence till the day before yesterday.”
“Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a
very large fortune, and it is believed that she
and her cousin will unite the two estates.”
This information made Elizabeth smile, as
she thought of poor Miss Bingley. Vain indeed
must be all her attentions, vain and useless
her affection for his sister and her praise of
himself, if he were already self-destined for
another.
“Mr. Collins,” said she, “speaks highly both
of Lady Catherine and her daughter; but from
some particulars that he has related of her ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him,
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and that in spite of her being his patroness,
she is an arrogant, conceited woman.”
“I believe her to be both in a great degree,” replied Wickham; “I have not seen her
for many years, but I very well remember that
I never liked her, and that her manners were
dictatorial and insolent. She has the reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever;
but I rather believe she derives part of her
abilities from her rank and fortune, part from
her authoritative manner, and the rest from
the pride for her nephew, who chooses that
everyone connected with him should have an
understanding of the first class.”
Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very
rational account of it, and they continued talking together, with mutual satisfaction till supper put an end to cards, and gave the rest of
the ladies their share of Mr. Wickham’s attentions. There could be no conversation in
the noise of Mrs. Phillips’s supper party, but
his manners recommended him to everybody.
Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done gracefully. Elizabeth went
away with her head full of him. She could
think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of
what he had told her, all the way home; but
there was not time for her even to mention
his name as they went, for neither Lydia nor
Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia talked
incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she
had lost and the fish she had won; and Mr.
Collins in describing the civility of Mr. and
Mrs. Phillips, protesting that he did not in the
least regard his losses at whist, enumerating
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all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing that he crowded his cousins, had more to
say than he could well manage before the carriage stopped at Longbourn House.
Chapter 17
Elizabeth related to Jane the next day what
had passed between Mr. Wickham and herself.
Jane listened with astonishment and concern;
she knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy
could be so unworthy of Mr. Bingley’s regard;
and yet, it was not in her nature to question the veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham. The possibility
of his having endured such unkindness, was
enough to interest all her tender feelings; and
nothing remained therefore to be done, but to
think well of them both, to defend the conduct
of each, and throw into the account of accident
or mistake whatever could not be otherwise
explained.
“They have both,” said she, “been deceived,
I dare say, in some way or other, of which
we can form no idea. Interested people have
perhaps misrepresented each to the other. It
is, in short, impossible for us to conjecture
the causes or circumstances which may have
alienated them, without actual blame on either side.”
“Very true, indeed; and now, my dear Jane,
what have you got to say on behalf of the in-
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terested people who have probably been concerned in the business? Do clear them too, or
we shall be obliged to think ill of somebody.”
“Laugh as much as you choose, but you will
not laugh me out of my opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating
his father’s favourite in such a manner, one
whom his father had promised to provide for.
It is impossible. No man of common humanity,
no man who had any value for his character,
could be capable of it. Can his most intimate
friends be so excessively deceived in him? Oh!
no.”
“I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley’s being imposed on, than that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself
as he gave me last night; names, facts, everything mentioned without ceremony. If it be
not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides,
there was truth in his looks.”
“It is difficult indeed—it is distressing.
One does not know what to think.”
“I beg your pardon; one knows exactly
what to think.”
But Jane could think with certainty on
only one point—that Mr. Bingley, if he had
been imposed on, would have much to suffer
when the affair became public.
The two young ladies were summoned
from the shrubbery, where this conversation
passed, by the arrival of the very persons of
whom they had been speaking; Mr. Bingley
and his sisters came to give their personal invitation for the long-expected ball at Nether-
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field, which was fixed for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see their
dear friend again, called it an age since they
had met, and repeatedly asked what she had
been doing with herself since their separation.
To the rest of the family they paid little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to the others. They were soon gone
again, rising from their seats with an activity which took their brother by surprise, and
hurrying off as if eager to escape from Mrs.
Bennet’s civilities.
The prospect of the Netherfield ball was
extremely agreeable to every female of the
family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as
given in compliment to her eldest daughter,
and was particularly flattered by receiving the
invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead
of a ceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the society of her two
friends, and the attentions of her brother; and
Elizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a
great deal with Mr. Wickham, and of seeing
a confirmation of everything in Mr. Darcy’s
look and behavior. The happiness anticipated
by Catherine and Lydia depended less on any
single event, or any particular person, for
though they each, like Elizabeth, meant to
dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham, he
was by no means the only partner who could
satisfy them, and a ball was, at any rate, a
ball. And even Mary could assure her family
that she had no disinclination for it.
“While I can have my mornings to myself,”
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said she, “it is enough—I think it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements. Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those who consider intervals
of recreation and amusement as desirable for
everybody.”
Elizabeth’s spirits were so high on this occasion, that though she did not often speak
unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could not
help asking him whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley’s invitation, and if he did,
whether he would think it proper to join in
the evening’s amusement; and she was rather
surprised to find that he entertained no scruple whatever on that head, and was very far
from dreading a rebuke either from the Archbishop, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to dance.
“I am by no means of the opinion, I assure
you,” said he, “that a ball of this kind, given
by a young man of character, to respectable
people, can have any evil tendency; and I am
so far from objecting to dancing myself, that I
shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all
my fair cousins in the course of the evening;
and I take this opportunity of soliciting yours,
Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially, a preference which I trust my cousin
Jane will attribute to the right cause, and not
to any disrespect for her.”
Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in.
She had fully proposed being engaged by Mr.
Wickham for those very dances; and to have
Mr. Collins instead! her liveliness had never
been worse timed. There was no help for it,
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however. Mr. Wickham’s happiness and her
own were perforce delayed a little longer, and
Mr. Collins’ proposal accepted with as good
a grace as she could. She was not the better pleased with his gallantry from the idea
it suggested of something more. It now first
struck her, that she was selected from among
her sisters as worthy of being mistress of
Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form
a quadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of
more eligible visitors. The idea soon reached
to conviction, as she observed his increasing
civilities toward herself, and heard his frequent attempt at a compliment on her wit and
vivacity; and though more astonished than
gratified herself by this effect of her charms,
it was not long before her mother gave her to
understand that the probability of their marriage was extremely agreeable to her. Elizabeth, however, did not choose to take the hint,
being well aware that a serious dispute must
be the consequence of any reply. Mr. Collins
might never make the offer, and till he did, it
was useless to quarrel about him.
If there had not been a Netherfield ball to
prepare for and talk of, the younger Miss Bennets would have been in a very pitiable state
at this time, for from the day of the invitation,
to the day of the ball, there was such a succession of rain as prevented their walking to
Meryton once. No aunt, no officers, no news
could be sought after—the very shoe-roses for
Netherfield were got by proxy. Even Elizabeth
might have found some trial of her patience
in weather which totally suspended the im-
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provement of her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than a dance on Tuesday, could have made such a Friday, Saturday,
Sunday, and Monday endurable to Kitty and
Lydia.
Chapter 18
Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at
Netherfield, and looked in vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a doubt of his being present had
never occurred to her. The certainty of meeting him had not been checked by any of
those recollections that might not unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with
more than usual care, and prepared in the
highest spirits for the conquest of all that remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting that
it was not more than might be won in the
course of the evening. But in an instant arose
the dreadful suspicion of his being purposely
omitted for Mr. Darcy’s pleasure in the Bingleys’ invitation to the officers; and though
this was not exactly the case, the absolute fact
of his absence was pronounced by his friend
Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and
who told them that Wickham had been obliged
to go to town on business the day before, and
was not yet returned; adding, with a significant smile, “I do not imagine his business
would have called him away just now, if he
had not wanted to avoid a certain gentleman
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Pride and Prejudice
here.”
This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was caught by Elizabeth, and,
as it assured her that Darcy was not less answerable for Wickham’s absence than if her
first surmise had been just, every feeling of
displeasure against the former was so sharpened by immediate disappointment, that she
could hardly reply with tolerable civility to
the polite inquiries which he directly afterwards approached to make. Attendance, forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to
Wickham. She was resolved against any sort
of conversation with him, and turned away
with a degree of ill-humour which she could
not wholly surmount even in speaking to Mr.
Bingley, whose blind partiality provoked her.
But Elizabeth was not formed for illhumour; and though every prospect of her
own was destroyed for the evening, it could
not dwell long on her spirits; and having told
all her griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she
had not seen for a week, she was soon able
to make a voluntary transition to the oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her
particular notice. The first two dances, however, brought a return of distress; they were
dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward
and solemn, apologising instead of attending,
and often moving wrong without being aware
of it, gave her all the shame and misery which
a disagreeable partner for a couple of dances
can give. The moment of her release from him
was ecstasy.
She danced next with an officer, and had
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the refreshment of talking of Wickham, and of
hearing that he was universally liked. When
those dances were over, she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and was in conversation with her,
when she found herself suddenly addressed by
Mr. Darcy who took her so much by surprise
in his application for her hand, that, without
knowing what she did, she accepted him. He
walked away again immediately, and she was
left to fret over her own want of presence of
mind; Charlotte tried to console her:
“I dare say you will find him very agreeable.”
“Heaven forbid! That would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find a man agreeable
whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish
me such an evil.”
When the dancing recommenced, however,
and Darcy approached to claim her hand,
Charlotte could not help cautioning her in a
whisper, not to be a simpleton, and allow her
fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant in the eyes of a man ten times his
consequence. Elizabeth made no answer, and
took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which she was arrived in being allowed
to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and reading
in her neighbours’ looks, their equal amazement in beholding it. They stood for some
time without speaking a word; and she began to imagine that their silence was to last
through the two dances, and at first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying
that it would be the greater punishment to her
partner to oblige him to talk, she made some
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slight observation on the dance. He replied,
and was again silent. After a pause of some
minutes, she addressed him a second time
with:—“It is your turn to say something now,
Mr. Darcy. I talked about the dance, and you
ought to make some sort of remark on the size
of the room, or the number of couples.”
He smiled, and assured her that whatever
she wished him to say should be said.
“Very well. That reply will do for the
present. Perhaps by and by I may observe
that private balls are much pleasanter than
public ones. But now we may be silent.”
“Do you talk by rule, then, while you are
dancing?”
“Sometimes. One must speak a little, you
know. It would look odd to be entirely silent
for half an hour together; and yet for the advantage of some, conversation ought to be so
arranged, as that they may have the trouble
of saying as little as possible.”
“Are you consulting your own feelings in
the present case, or do you imagine that you
are gratifying mine?”
“Both,” replied Elizabeth archly; “for I
have always seen a great similarity in the
turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak,
unless we expect to say something that will
amaze the whole room, and be handed down
to posterity with all the éclat of a proverb.”
“This is no very striking resemblance of
your own character, I am sure,” said he. “How
near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to
say. You think it a faithful portrait undoubt-
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edly.”
“I must not decide on my own performance.”
He made no answer, and they were again
silent till they had gone down the dance, when
he asked her if she and her sisters did not very
often walk to Meryton. She answered in the
affirmative, and, unable to resist the temptation, added, “When you met us there the other
day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.”
The effect was immediate. A deeper shade
of hauteur overspread his features, but he
said not a word, and Elizabeth, though blaming herself for her own weakness, could not
go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a
constrained manner said, “Mr. Wickham is
blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends—whether he may be
equally capable of retaining them, is less certain.”
“He has been so unlucky as to lose your
friendship,” replied Elizabeth with emphasis,
“and in a manner which he is likely to suffer
from all his life.”
Darcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the subject. At that moment, Sir William Lucas appeared close to
them, meaning to pass through the set to the
other side of the room; but on perceiving Mr.
Darcy, he stopped with a bow of superior courtesy to compliment him on his dancing and his
partner.
“I have been most highly gratified indeed,
my dear sir. Such very superior dancing is
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not often seen. It is evident that you belong
to the first circles. Allow me to say, however,
that your fair partner does not disgrace you,
and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Eliza (glancing at her sister and Bingley) shall take place. What congratulations will then flow in! I appeal to Mr.
Darcy:—but let me not interrupt you, sir. You
will not thank me for detaining you from the
bewitching converse of that young lady, whose
bright eyes are also upbraiding me.”
The latter part of this address was scarcely
heard by Darcy; but Sir William’s allusion to
his friend seemed to strike him forcibly, and
his eyes were directed with a very serious expression towards Bingley and Jane, who were
dancing together. Recovering himself, however, shortly, he turned to his partner, and
said, “Sir William’s interruption has made me
forget what we were talking of.”
“I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir
William could not have interrupted two people in the room who had less to say for themselves. We have tried two or three subjects
already without success, and what we are to
talk of next I cannot imagine.”
“What think you of books?” said he, smiling.
“Books—oh! no. I am sure we never read
the same, or not with the same feelings.”
“I am sorry you think so; but if that be the
case, there can at least be no want of subject.
We may compare our different opinions.”
“No—I cannot talk of books in a ball-room;
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my head is always full of something else.”
“The present always occupies you in such
scenes—does it?” said he, with a look of doubt.
“Yes, always,” she replied, without knowing what she said, for her thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon afterwards
appeared by her suddenly exclaiming, “I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that
you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment
once created was unappeasable. You are very
cautious, I suppose, as to its being created.”
“I am,” said he, with a firm voice.
“And never allow yourself to be blinded by
prejudice?”
“I hope not.”
“It is particularly incumbent on those who
never change their opinion, to be secure of
judging properly at first.”
“May I ask to what these questions tend?”
“Merely to the illustration of your character,” said she, endeavouring to shake off her
gravity. “I am trying to make it out.”
“And what is your success?”
She shook her head. “I do not get on at all.
I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle
me exceedingly.”
“I can readily believe,” answered he
gravely, “that reports may vary greatly with
respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet,
that you were not to sketch my character at
the present moment, as there is reason to fear
that the performance would reflect no credit
on either.”
“But if I do not take your likeness now, I
may never have another opportunity.”
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“I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” he coldly replied. She said no
more, and they went down the other dance
and parted in silence; and on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree, for in
Darcy’s breast there was a tolerable powerful
feeling towards her, which soon procured her
pardon, and directed all his anger against another.
They had not long separated, when Miss
Bingley came towards her, and with an expression of civil disdain accosted her:
“So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George Wickham! Your sister
has been talking to me about him, and asking me a thousand questions; and I find that
the young man quite forgot to tell you, among
his other communication, that he was the son
of old Wickham, the late Mr. Darcy’s steward.
Let me recommend you, however, as a friend,
not to give implicit confidence to all his assertions; for as to Mr. Darcy’s using him ill, it
is perfectly false; for, on the contrary, he has
always been remarkably kind to him, though
George Wickham has treated Mr. Darcy in a
most infamous manner. I do not know the particulars, but I know very well that Mr. Darcy
is not in the least to blame, that he cannot
bear to hear George Wickham mentioned, and
that though my brother thought that he could
not well avoid including him in his invitation
to the officers, he was excessively glad to find
that he had taken himself out of the way. His
coming into the country at all is a most insolent thing, indeed, and I wonder how he could
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presume to do it. I pity you, Miss Eliza, for
this discovery of your favourite’s guilt; but really, considering his descent, one could not expect much better.”
“His guilt and his descent appear by your
account to be the same,” said Elizabeth angrily; “for I have heard you accuse him of nothing worse than of being the son of Mr. Darcy’s
steward, and of that, I can assure you, he informed me himself.”
“I beg your pardon,” replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a sneer. “Excuse my
interference—it was kindly meant.”
“Insolent girl!” said Elizabeth to herself.
“You are much mistaken if you expect to influence me by such a paltry attack as this.
I see nothing in it but your own wilful ignorance and the malice of Mr. Darcy.” She then
sought her eldest sister, who has undertaken
to make inquiries on the same subject of Bingley. Jane met her with a smile of such sweet
complacency, a glow of such happy expression,
as sufficiently marked how well she was satisfied with the occurrences of the evening. Elizabeth instantly read her feelings, and at that
moment solicitude for Wickham, resentment
against his enemies, and everything else, gave
way before the hope of Jane’s being in the
fairest way for happiness.
“I want to know,” said she, with a countenance no less smiling than her sister’s, “what
you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But perhaps you have been too pleasantly engaged to
think of any third person; in which case you
may be sure of my pardon.”
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“No,” replied Jane, “I have not forgotten
him; but I have nothing satisfactory to tell
you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of
his history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which have principally offended
Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the good conduct, the probity, and honour of his friend, and
is perfectly convinced that Mr. Wickham has
deserved much less attention from Mr. Darcy
than he has received; and I am sorry to say by
his account as well as his sister’s, Mr. Wickham is by no means a respectable young man.
I am afraid he has been very imprudent, and
has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy’s regard.”
“Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham
himself?”
“No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton.”
“This account then is what he has received
from Mr. Darcy. I am satisfied. But what does
he say of the living?”
“He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has heard them from Mr.
Darcy more than once, but he believes that it
was left to him conditionally only.”
“I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley’s sincerity,” said Elizabeth warmly; “but you must
excuse my not being convinced by assurances
only. Mr. Bingley’s defense of his friend was a
very able one, I dare say; but since he is unacquainted with several parts of the story, and
has learnt the rest from that friend himself, I
shall venture to still think of both gentlemen
as I did before.”
She then changed the discourse to one
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137
more gratifying to each, and on which there
could be no difference of sentiment. Elizabeth
listened with delight to the happy, though
modest hopes which Jane entertained of Mr.
Bingley’s regard, and said all in her power to
heighten her confidence in it. On their being joined by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth
withdrew to Miss Lucas; to whose inquiry after the pleasantness of her last partner she
had scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came
up to them, and told her with great exultation
that he had just been so fortunate as to make
a most important discovery.
“I have found out,” said he, “by a singular
accident, that there is now in the room a near
relation of my patroness. I happened to overhear the gentleman himself mentioning to the
young lady who does the honours of the house
the names of his cousin Miss de Bourgh, and
of her mother Lady Catherine. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would
have thought of my meeting with, perhaps, a
nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh in this
assembly! I am most thankful that the discovery is made in time for me to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to do,
and trust he will excuse my not having done
it before. My total ignorance of the connection
must plead my apology.”
“You are not going to introduce yourself to
Mr. Darcy!”
“Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon
for not having done it earlier. I believe him
to be Lady Catherine’s nephew. It will be in
my power to assure him that her ladyship was
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quite well yesterday se’nnight.”
Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from
such a scheme, assuring him that Mr. Darcy
would consider his addressing him without introduction as an impertinent freedom, rather
than a compliment to his aunt; that it was
not in the least necessary there should be
any notice on either side; and that if it were,
it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in
consequence, to begin the acquaintance. Mr.
Collins listened to her with the determined
air of following his own inclination, and, when
she ceased speaking, replied thus:
“My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world in your excellent
judgement in all matters within the scope
of your understanding; but permit me to
say, that there must be a wide difference
between the established forms of ceremony
amongst the laity, and those which regulate the clergy; for, give me leave to observe
that I consider the clerical office as equal in
point of dignity with the highest rank in the
kingdom—provided that a proper humility of
behaviour is at the same time maintained.
You must therefore allow me to follow the dictates of my conscience on this occasion, which
leads me to perform what I look on as a point
of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to profit
by your advice, which on every other subject
shall be my constant guide, though in the case
before us I consider myself more fitted by education and habitual study to decide on what
is right than a young lady like yourself.” And
with a low bow he left her to attack Mr. Darcy,
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whose reception of his advances she eagerly
watched, and whose astonishment at being so
addressed was very evident. Her cousin prefaced his speech with a solemn bow and though
she could not hear a word of it, she felt as
if hearing it all, and saw in the motion of
his lips the words “apology,” “Hunsford,” and
“Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” It vexed her to
see him expose himself to such a man. Mr.
Darcy was eyeing him with unrestrained wonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him
time to speak, replied with an air of distant
civility. Mr. Collins, however, was not discouraged from speaking again, and Mr. Darcy’s
contempt seemed abundantly increasing with
the length of his second speech, and at the
end of it he only made him a slight bow, and
moved another way. Mr. Collins then returned
to Elizabeth.
“I have no reason, I assure you,” said he,
“to be dissatisfied with my reception. Mr.
Darcy seemed much pleased with the attention. He answered me with the utmost civility, and even paid me the compliment of
saying that he was so well convinced of Lady
Catherine’s discernment as to be certain she
could never bestow a favour unworthily. It
was really a very handsome thought. Upon
the whole, I am much pleased with him.”
As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of
her own to pursue, she turned her attention
almost entirely on her sister and Mr. Bingley;
and the train of agreeable reflections which
her observations gave birth to, made her perhaps almost as happy as Jane. She saw her in
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Pride and Prejudice
idea settled in that very house, in all the felicity which a marriage of true affection could bestow; and she felt capable, under such circumstances, of endeavouring even to like Bingley’s
two sisters. Her mother’s thoughts she plainly
saw were bent the same way, and she determined not to venture near her, lest she might
hear too much. When they sat down to supper,
therefore, she considered it a most unlucky
perverseness which placed them within one of
each other; and deeply was she vexed to find
that her mother was talking to that one person (Lady Lucas) freely, openly, and of nothing else but her expectation that Jane would
soon be married to Mr. Bingley. It was an animating subject, and Mrs. Bennet seemed incapable of fatigue while enumerating the advantages of the match. His being such a charming young man, and so rich, and living but
three miles from them, were the first points of
self-gratulation; and then it was such a comfort to think how fond the two sisters were
of Jane, and to be certain that they must desire the connection as much as she could do.
It was, moreover, such a promising thing for
her younger daughters, as Jane’s marrying so
greatly must throw them in the way of other
rich men; and lastly, it was so pleasant at her
time of life to be able to consign her single
daughters to the care of their sister, that she
might not be obliged to go into company more
than she liked. It was necessary to make this
circumstance a matter of pleasure, because on
such occasions it is the etiquette; but no one
was less likely than Mrs. Bennet to find com-
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fort in staying home at any period of her life.
She concluded with many good wishes that
Lady Lucas might soon be equally fortunate,
though evidently and triumphantly believing
there was no chance of it.
In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check
the rapidity of her mother’s words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible whisper; for, to her inexpressible vexation, she could perceive that the chief of it was
overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat opposite to
them. Her mother only scolded her for being
nonsensical.
“What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I
should be afraid of him? I am sure we owe him
no such particular civility as to be obliged to
say nothing he may not like to hear.”
“For heaven’s sake, madam, speak lower.
What advantage can it be for you to offend Mr.
Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to
his friend by so doing!”
Nothing that she could say, however, had
any influence. Her mother would talk of her
views in the same intelligible tone. Elizabeth
blushed and blushed again with shame and
vexation. She could not help frequently glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though every glance
convinced her of what she dreaded; for though
he was not always looking at her mother, she
was convinced that his attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression of his face
changed gradually from indignant contempt
to a composed and steady gravity.
At length, however, Mrs. Bennet had no
more to say; and Lady Lucas, who had been
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long yawning at the repetition of delights
which she saw no likelihood of sharing, was
left to the comforts of cold ham and chicken.
Elizabeth now began to revive. But not long
was the interval of tranquillity; for, when supper was over, singing was talked of, and she
had the mortification of seeing Mary, after
very little entreaty, preparing to oblige the
company. By many significant looks and silent
entreaties, did she endeavour to prevent such
a proof of complaisance, but in vain; Mary
would not understand them; such an opportunity of exhibiting was delightful to her, and
she began her song. Elizabeth’s eyes were
fixed on her with most painful sensations, and
she watched her progress through the several
stanzas with an impatience which was very
ill rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving, amongst the thanks of the table, the hint
of a hope that she might be prevailed on to
favour them again, after the pause of half a
minute began another. Mary’s powers were by
no means fitted for such a display; her voice
was weak, and her manner affected. Elizabeth was in agonies. She looked at Jane, to see
how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly
talking to Bingley. She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making signs of derision at
each other, and at Darcy, who continued, however, imperturbably grave. She looked at her
father to entreat his interference, lest Mary
should be singing all night. He took the hint,
and when Mary had finished her second song,
said aloud, “That will do extremely well, child.
You have delighted us long enough. Let the
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other young ladies have time to exhibit.”
Mary, though pretending not to hear, was
somewhat disconcerted; and Elizabeth, sorry
for her, and sorry for her father’s speech, was
afraid her anxiety had done no good. Others
of the party were now applied to.
“If I,” said Mr. Collins, “were so fortunate
as to be able to sing, I should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with
an air; for I consider music as a very innocent
diversion, and perfectly compatible with the
profession of a clergyman. I do not mean, however, to assert that we can be justified in devoting too much of our time to music, for there
are certainly other things to be attended to.
The rector of a parish has much to do. In the
first place, he must make such an agreement
for tithes as a may be beneficial to himself and
not offensive to his patron. He must write his
own sermons; and the time that remains will
not be too much for his parish duties, and the
care and improvement of his dwelling, which
he cannot be excused from making as a comfortable as possible. And I do not think it
of light importance that he should have attentive and conciliatory manner towards everybody, especially towards those to whom he
owes his preferment. I cannot acquit him of
that duty; nor could I think well of the man
who should omit an occasion of testifying his
respect towards anybody connected with the
family.” And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded his speech, which had been spoken so
loud as a to be heard by half the room. Many
stared—many smiled; but no one looked more
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amused than Mr. Bennet himself, while his
wife seriously commended Mr. Collins for having spoken so sensibly, and observed in a halfwhisper to Lady Lucas, that he was a remarkably clever, good kind of young man.
To Elizabeth it appeared that, had her
family made an agreement to expose themselves as a much as a they could during the
evening, it would have been impossible for
them to play their parts with more spirit or
finer success; and happy did she think it for
Bingley and her sister that some of the exhibition had escaped his notice, and that his feelings were not of a sort to be much distressed
by the folly which he must have witnessed.
That his two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however,
should have such an opportunity of ridiculing
her relations, was bad enough, and she could
not determine whether the silent contempt of
the gentleman, or the insolent smiles of the
ladies, were more intolerable.
The rest of the evening brought her little
amusement. She was teased by Mr. Collins,
who continued most perseveringly by her side,
and though he could not prevail on her to
dance with him again, put it out of her power
to dance with others. In vain did she entreat
him to stand up with somebody else, and offer to introduce him to any young lady in the
room. He assured her, that as to dancing, he
was perfectly indifferent to it; that his chief
object was by delicate attentions to recommend himself to her and that he should therefore make a point of remaining close to her the
whole evening. There was no arguing upon
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145
such a project. She owed her greatest relief to
her friend Miss Lucas, who often joined them,
and good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins’s conversation to herself.
She was at least free from the offense
of Mr. Darcy’s further notice; though often
standing within a very short distance of her,
quite disengaged, he never came near enough
to speak. She felt it to be the probable consequence of her allusions to Mr. Wickham, and
rejoiced in it.
The Longbourn party were the last of all
the company to depart, and, by a manœuvre of Mrs. Bennet, had to wait for their carriage a quarter of an hour after everybody else
was gone, which gave them time to see how
heartily they were wished away by some of
the family. Mrs. Hurst and her sister scarcely
opened their mouths, except to complain of fatigue, and were evidently impatient to have
the house to themselves. They repulsed every
attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and
by so doing threw a languor over the whole
party, which was very little relieved by the
long speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr. Bingley and his sisters on the elegance of their entertainment, and the hospitality and politeness which had marked their
behaviour to their guests. Darcy said nothing
at all. Mr. Bennet, in equal silence, was enjoying the scene. Mr. Bingley and Jane were
standing together, a little detached from the
rest, and talked only to each other. Elizabeth
preserved as steady a silence as either Mrs.
Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was
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too much fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation of “Lord, how tired I am!”
accompanied by a violent yawn.
When at length they arose to take leave,
Mrs. Bennet was most pressingly civil in her
hope of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn, and addressed herself especially to Mr.
Bingley, to assure him how happy he would
make them by eating a family dinner with
them at any time, without the ceremony of
a formal invitation. Bingley was all grateful
pleasure, and he readily engaged for taking
the earliest opportunity of waiting on her, after his return from London, whither he was
obliged to go the next day for a short time.
Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied, and
quitted the house under the delightful persuasion that, allowing for the necessary preparations of settlements, new carriages, and wedding clothes, she should undoubtedly see her
daughter settled at Netherfield in the course
of three or four months. Of having another
daughter married to Mr. Collins, she thought
with equal certainty, and with considerable,
though not equal, pleasure. Elizabeth was
the least dear to her of all her children; and
though the man and the match were quite
good enough for her, the worth of each was
eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield.
Chapter 19
The next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his declaration in
form. Having resolved to do it without loss of
time, as his leave of absence extended only to
the following Saturday, and having no feelings
of diffidence to make it distressing to himself even at the moment, he set about it in a
very orderly manner, with all the observances,
which he supposed a regular part of the business. On finding Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and
one of the younger girls together, soon after
breakfast, he addressed the mother in these
words:
“May I hope, madam, for your interest with
your fair daughter Elizabeth, when I solicit
for the honour of a private audience with her
in the course of this morning?”
Before Elizabeth had time for anything but
a blush of surprise, Mrs. Bennet answered instantly, “Oh dear!—yes—certainly. I am sure
Lizzy will be very happy—I am sure she can
have no objection. Come, Kitty, I want you upstairs.” And, gathering her work together, she
was hastening away, when Elizabeth called
out:
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Pride and Prejudice
“Dear madam, do not go. I beg you will not
go. Mr. Collins must excuse me. He can have
nothing to say to me that anybody need not
hear. I am going away myself.”
“No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you to
stay where you are.” And upon Elizabeth’s
seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed
looks, about to escape, she added: “Lizzy,
I insist upon your staying and hearing Mr.
Collins.”
Elizabeth would not oppose such an
injunction—and a moment’s consideration
making her also sensible that it would be wisest to get it over as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down again and tried to conceal,
by incessant employment the feelings which
were divided between distress and diversion.
Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off, and as soon
as they were gone, Mr. Collins began.
“Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that
your modesty, so far from doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections.
You would have been less amiable in my eyes
had there not been this little unwillingness;
but allow me to assure you, that I have your
respected mother’s permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the purport of my
discourse, however your natural delicacy may
lead you to dissemble; my attentions have
been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as
soon as I entered the house, I singled you out
as the companion of my future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this
subject, perhaps it would be advisable for me
to state my reasons for marrying—and, more-
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149
over, for coming into Hertfordshire with the
design of selecting a wife, as I certainly did.”
The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn
composure, being run away with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing, that
she could not use the short pause he allowed
in any attempt to stop him further, and he
continued:
“My reasons for marrying are, first, that I
think it a right thing for every clergyman in
easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example of matrimony in his parish; secondly,
that I am convinced that it will add very
greatly to my happiness; and thirdly—which
perhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier,
that it is the particular advice and recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the
honour of calling patroness. Twice has she
condescended to give me her opinion (unasked
too!) on this subject; and it was but the
very Saturday night before I left Hunsford––
between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs.
Jenkinson was arranging Miss de Bourgh’s
footstool, that she said, ‘Mr. Collins, you must
marry. A clergyman like you must marry.
Choose properly, choose a gentlewoman for my
sake; and for your own, let her be an active,
useful sort of person, not brought up high, but
able to make a small income go a good way.
This is my advice. Find such a woman as
soon as you can, bring her to Hunsford, and
I will visit her.’ Allow me, by the way, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon
the notice and kindness of Lady Catherine
de Bourgh as among the least of the advan-
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tages in my power to offer. You will find her
manners beyond anything I can describe; and
your wit and vivacity, I think, must be acceptable to her, especially when tempered with the
silence and respect which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general intention in favour of matrimony; it remains to
be told why my views were directed towards
Longbourn instead of my own neighbourhood,
where I can assure you there are many amiable young women. But the fact is, that being, as I am, to inherit this estate after the
death of your honoured father (who, however,
may live many years longer), I could not satisfy myself without resolving to choose a wife
from among his daughters, that the loss to
them might be as little as possible, when the
melancholy event takes place—which, however, as I have already said, may not be for
several years. This has been my motive, my
fair cousin, and I flatter myself it will not sink
me in your esteem. And now nothing remains
but for me but to assure you in the most animated language of the violence of my affection. To fortune I am perfectly indifferent,
and shall make no demand of that nature on
your father, since I am well aware that it could
not be complied with; and that one thousand
pounds in the four per cents, which will not
be yours till after your mother’s decease, is
all that you may ever be entitled to. On that
head, therefore, I shall be uniformly silent;
and you may assure yourself that no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when
we are married.”
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151
It was absolutely necessary to interrupt
him now.
“You are too hasty, sir,” she cried. “You
forget that I have made no answer. Let me
do it without further loss of time. Accept my
thanks for the compliment you are paying me.
I am very sensible of the honour of your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than to decline them.”
“I am not now to learn,” replied Mr. Collins,
with a formal wave of the hand, “that it
is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the man whom they secretly mean
to accept, when he first applies for their
favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second, or even a third time. I am
therefore by no means discouraged by what
you have just said, and shall hope to lead you
to the altar ere long.”
“Upon my word, sir,” cried Elizabeth, “your
hope is a rather extraordinary one after my
declaration. I do assure you that I am not
one of those young ladies (if such young ladies
there are) who are so daring as to risk their
happiness on the chance of being asked a second time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal.
You could not make me happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world
who could make you so. Nay, were your friend
Lady Catherine to know me, I am persuaded
she would find me in every respect ill qualified
for the situation.”
“Were it certain that Lady Catherine
would think so,” said Mr. Collins very
gravely—“but I cannot imagine that her lady-
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ship would at all disapprove of you. And you
may be certain when I have the honour of seeing her again, I shall speak in the very highest terms of your modesty, economy, and other
amiable qualification.”
“Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will
be unnecessary. You must give me leave to
judge for myself, and pay me the compliment
of believing what I say. I wish you very happy
and very rich, and by refusing your hand, do
all in my power to prevent your being otherwise. In making me the offer, you must have
satisfied the delicacy of your feelings with regard to my family, and may take possession of
Longbourn estate whenever it falls, without
any self-reproach. This matter may be considered, therefore, as finally settled.” And rising
as she thus spoke, she would have quitted the
room, had Mr. Collins not thus addressed her:
“When I do myself the honour of speaking
to you next on the subject, I shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have
now given me; though I am far from accusing
you of cruelty at present, because I know it to
be the established custom of your sex to reject
a man on the first application, and perhaps
you have even now said as much to encourage
my suit as would be consistent with the true
delicacy of the female character.”
“Really, Mr. Collins,” cried Elizabeth with
some warmth, “you puzzle me exceedingly. If
what I have hitherto said can appear to you
in the form of encouragement, I know not how
to express my refusal in such a way as to convince you of its being one.”
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153
“You must give me leave to flatter myself,
my dear cousin, that your refusal of my addresses is merely words of course. My reasons for believing it are briefly these: It does
not appear to me that my hand is unworthy
your acceptance, or that the establishment I
can offer would be any other than highly desirable. My situation in life, my connections
with the family of de Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are circumstances highly in
my favour; and you should take it into further
consideration, that in spite of your manifold
attractions, it is by no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you.
Your portion is unhappily so small that it will
in all likelihood undo the effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must
therefore conclude that you are not serious in
your rejection of me, I shall choose to attribute
it to your wish of increasing my love by suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females.”
“I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever to that kind of elegance which
consists in tormenting a respectable man. I
would rather be paid the compliment of being
believed sincere. I thank you again and again
for the honour you have done me in your proposals, but to accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect forbid it.
Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now
as an elegant female, intending to plague you,
but as a rational creature, speaking the truth
from her heart.”
“You are uniformly charming!” cried he,
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Pride and Prejudice
with an air of awkward gallantry; “and I am
persuaded that when sanctioned by the express authority of both your excellent parents,
my proposals will not fail of being acceptable.”
To such perseverance in wilful selfdeception Elizabeth would make no reply, and
immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, if he persisted in considering her repeated refusals as flattering encouragement,
to apply to her father, whose negative might
be uttered in such a manner as to be decisive,
and whose behavior at least could not be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an
elegant female.
Chapter 20
Mr. Collins was not left long to the silent
contemplation of his successful love; for
Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the
vestibule to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open the
door and with quick step pass her towards
the staircase, than she entered the breakfastroom, and congratulated both him and herself
in warm terms on the happy prospect or their
nearer connection. Mr. Collins received and
returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then proceeded to relate the particulars of their interview, with the result of which
he trusted he had every reason to be satisfied,
since the refusal which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow from
her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy
of her character.
This information, however, startled Mrs.
Bennet; she would have been glad to be
equally satisfied that her daughter had meant
to encourage him by protesting against his
proposals, but she dared not believe it, and
could not help saying so.
“But, depend upon it, Mr. Collins,” she
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Pride and Prejudice
added, “that Lizzy shall be brought to reason.
I will speak to her about it directly. She is
a very headstrong, foolish girl, and does not
know her own interest but I will make her
know it.”
“Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,”
cried Mr. Collins; “but if she is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she
would altogether be a very desirable wife to
a man in my situation, who naturally looks
for happiness in the marriage state. If therefore she actually persists in rejecting my suit,
perhaps it were better not to force her into accepting me, because if liable to such defects of
temper, she could not contribute much to my
felicity.”
“Sir, you quite misunderstand me,” said
Mrs. Bennet, alarmed. “Lizzy is only headstrong in such matters as these. In everything
else she is as good-natured a girl as ever lived.
I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and we shall
very soon settle it with her, I am sure.”
She would not give him time to reply, but
hurrying instantly to her husband, called out
as she entered the library, “Oh! Mr. Bennet,
you are wanted immediately; we are all in
an uproar. You must come and make Lizzy
marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not
have him, and if you do not make haste he
will change his mind and not have her.”
Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as
she entered, and fixed them on her face with
a calm unconcern which was not in the least
altered by her communication.
“I have not the pleasure of understand-
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157
ing you,” said he, when she had finished her
speech. “Of what are you talking?”
“Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares
she will not have Mr. Collins, and Mr. Collins
begins to say that he will not have Lizzy.”
“And what am I to do on the occasion? It
seems an hopeless business.”
“Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her
that you insist upon her marrying him.”
“Let her be called down. She shall hear my
opinion.”
Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the library.
“Come here, child,” cried her father as she
appeared. “I have sent for you on an affair
of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins
has made you an offer of marriage. Is it true?”
Elizabeth replied that it was. “Very well—and
this offer of marriage you have refused?”
“I have, sir.”
“Very well. We now come to the point. Your
mother insists upon your accepting it. Is it not
so, Mrs. Bennet?”
“Yes, or I will never see her again.”
“An unhappy alternative is before you,
Elizabeth. From this day you must be a
stranger to one of your parents. Your mother
will never see you again if you do not marry
Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if
you do.”
Elizabeth could not but smile at such a
conclusion of such a beginning, but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the affair as she wished, was
excessively disappointed.
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Pride and Prejudice
“What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, in talking
this way? You promised me to insist upon her
marrying him.”
“My dear,” replied her husband, “I have
two small favours to request. First, that you
will allow me the free use of my understanding on the present occasion; and secondly, of
my room. I shall be glad to have the library to
myself as soon as may be.”
Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did Mrs. Bennet
give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth
again and again; coaxed and threatened her
by turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane
in her interest; but Jane, with all possible
mildness, declined interfering; and Elizabeth,
sometimes with real earnestness, and sometimes with playful gaiety, replied to her attacks. Though her manner varied, however,
her determination never did.
Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in
solitude on what had passed. He thought too
well of himself to comprehend on what motives his cousin could refuse him; and though
his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other
way. His regard for her was quite imaginary; and the possibility of her deserving her
mother’s reproach prevented his feeling any
regret.
While the family were in this confusion,
Charlotte Lucas came to spend the day with
them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia,
who, flying to her, cried in a half whisper, “I
am glad you are come, for there is such fun
here! What do you think has happened this
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159
morning? Mr. Collins has made an offer to
Lizzy, and she will not have him.”
Charlotte hardly had time to answer, before they were joined by Kitty, who came to
tell the same news; and no sooner had they
entered the breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on the
subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating her to persuade her
friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of all
her family. “Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas,”
she added in a melancholy tone, “for nobody is
on my side, nobody takes part with me. I am
cruelly used, nobody feels for my poor nerves.”
Charlotte’s reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth.
“Aye, there she comes,” continued Mrs.
Bennet, “looking as unconcerned as may be,
and caring no more for us than if we were at
York, provided she can have her own way. But
I tell you, Miss Lizzy—if you take it into your
head to go on refusing every offer of marriage
in this way, you will never get a husband at
all—and I am sure I do not know who is to
maintain you when your father is dead. I shall
not be able to keep you—and so I warn you.
I have done with you from this very day. I
told you in the library, you know, that I should
never speak to you again, and you will find
me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in
talking to undutiful children. Not that I have
much pleasure, indeed, in talking to anybody.
People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have no great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! But it is al-
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Pride and Prejudice
ways so. Those who do not complain are never
pitied.”
Her daughters listened in silence to this
effusion, sensible that any attempt to reason
with her or soothe her would only increase the
irritation. She talked on, therefore, without
interruption from any of them, till they were
joined by Mr. Collins, who entered the room
with an air more stately than usual, and on
perceiving whom, she said to the girls, “Now,
I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold
your tongues, and let me and Mr. Collins have
a little conversation together.”
Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room,
Jane and Kitty followed, but Lydia stood her
ground, determined to hear all she could; and
Charlotte, detained first by the civility of Mr.
Collins, whose inquiries after herself and all
her family were very minute, and then by a
little curiosity, satisfied herself with walking
to the window and pretending not to hear. In a
doleful voice Mrs. Bennet began the projected
conversation: “Oh! Mr. Collins!”
“My dear madam,” replied he, “let us be for
ever silent on this point. Far be it from me,”
he presently continued, in a voice that marked
his displeasure, “to resent the behaviour of
your daughter. Resignation to inevitable evils
is the evil duty of us all; the peculiar duty of
a young man who has been so fortunate as
I have been in early preferment; and I trust
I am resigned. Perhaps not the less so from
feeling a doubt of my positive happiness had
my fair cousin honoured me with her hand;
for I have often observed that resignation is
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161
never so perfect as when the blessing denied
begins to lose somewhat of its value in our estimation. You will not, I hope, consider me
as showing any disrespect to your family, my
dear madam, by thus withdrawing my pretensions to your daughter’s favour, without having paid yourself and Mr. Bennet the compliment of requesting you to interpose your authority in my behalf. My conduct may, I fear,
be objectionable in having accepted my dismission from your daughter’s lips instead of
your own. But we are all liable to error. I
have certainly meant well through the whole
affair. My object has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with due consideration for the advantage of all your family, and
if my manner has been at all reprehensible, I
here beg leave to apologise.”
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Chapter 21
The discussion of Mr. Collins’s offer was now
nearly at an end, and Elizabeth had only to
suffer from the uncomfortable feelings necessarily attending it, and occasionally from
some peevish allusions of her mother. As
for the gentleman himself, his feelings were
chiefly expressed, not by embarrassment or
dejection, or by trying to avoid her, but by
stiffness of manner and resentful silence. He
scarcely ever spoke to her, and the assiduous
attentions which he had been so sensible of
himself were transferred for the rest of the
day to Miss Lucas, whose civility in listening
to him was a seasonable relief to them all, and
especially to her friend.
The morrow produced no abatement of
Mrs. Bennet’s ill-humour or ill health. Mr.
Collins was also in the same state of angry
pride. Elizabeth had hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did
not appear in the least affected by it. He was
always to have gone on Saturday, and to Saturday he meant to stay.
After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton to inquire if Mr. Wickham were returned,
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and to lament over his absence from the
Netherfield ball. He joined them on their entering the town, and attended them to their
aunt’s where his regret and vexation, and the
concern of everybody, was well talked over. To
Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged that the necessity of his absence had
been self-imposed.
“I found,” said he, “as the time drew near
that I had better not meet Mr. Darcy; that to
be in the same room, the same party with him
for so many hours together, might be more
than I could bear, and that scenes might arise
unpleasant to more than myself.”
She highly approved his forbearance, and
they had leisure for a full discussion of it, and
for all the commendation which they civilly
bestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer walked back with them to Longbourn, and during the walk he particularly attended to her. His accompanying them was a
double advantage; she felt all the compliment
it offered to herself, and it was most acceptable as an occasion of introducing him to her
father and mother.
Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, little, hot-pressed paper, well covered
with a lady’s fair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister’s countenance change as
she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on
some particular passages. Jane recollected
herself soon, and putting the letter away, tried
to join with her usual cheerfulness in the gen-
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165
eral conversation; but Elizabeth felt an anxiety on the subject which drew off her attention
even from Wickham; and no sooner had he
and he companion taken leave, than a glance
from Jane invited her to follow her upstairs.
When they had gained their own room, Jane,
taking out the letter, said:
“This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains has surprised me a good deal. The whole
party have left Netherfield by this time, and
are on their way to town—and without any intention of coming back again. You shall hear
what she says.”
She then read the first sentence aloud,
which comprised the information of their having just resolved to follow their brother to
town directly, and of their meaning to dine
in Grosvenor Street, where Mr. Hurst had a
house. The next was in these words: “I do
not pretend to regret anything I shall leave in
Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest
friend; but we will hope, at some future period, to enjoy many returns of that delightful
intercourse we have known, and in the meanwhile may lessen the pain of separation by a
very frequent and most unreserved correspondence. I depend on you for that.” To these
highflown expressions Elizabeth listened with
all the insensibility of distrust; and though
the suddenness of their removal surprised
her, she saw nothing in it really to lament;
it was not to be supposed that their absence
from Netherfield would prevent Mr. Bingley’s
being there; and as to the loss of their society, she was persuaded that Jane must cease
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to regard it, in the enjoyment of his.
“It is unlucky,” said she, after a short
pause, “that you should not be able to see your
friends before they leave the country. But may
we not hope that the period of future happiness to which Miss Bingley looks forward
may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that
the delightful intercourse you have known as
friends will be renewed with yet greater satisfaction as sisters? Mr. Bingley will not be
detained in London by them.”
“Caroline decidedly says that none of the
party will return into Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you:”
“When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which took him to London
might be concluded in three or four
days; but as we are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time
convinced that when Charles gets
to town he will be in no hurry to
leave it again, we have determined
on following him thither, that he
may not be obliged to spend his
vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintances
are already there for the winter; I
wish that I could hear that you, my
dearest friend, had any intention
of making one of the crowd—but
of that I despair. I sincerely hope
your Christmas in Hertfordshire
may abound in the gaieties which
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that season generally brings, and
that your beaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the
loss of the three of whom we shall
deprive you.”
“It is evident by this,” added Jane, “that he
comes back no more this winter.”
“It is only evident that Miss Bingley does
not mean that he should.”
“Why will you think so? It must be his own
doing. He is his own master. But you do not
know all. I will read you the passage which
particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves
from you.”
“Mr. Darcy is impatient to see
his sister; and, to confess the
truth, we are scarcely less eager
to meet her again. I really do
not think Georgiana Darcy has her
equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments; and the affection
she inspires in Louisa and myself
is heightened into something still
more interesting, from the hope we
dare entertain of her being hereafter our sister. I do not know
whether I ever before mentioned
to you my feelings on this subject; but I will not leave the country without confiding them, and I
trust you will not esteem them unreasonable. My brother admires
her greatly already; he will have
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frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing; her relations all wish the connection as much as his own; and
a sister’s partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call
Charles most capable of engaging
any woman’s heart. With all these
circumstances to favour an attachment, and nothing to prevent it, am
I wrong, my dearest Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which
will secure the happiness of so
many?”
“What do you think of this sentence, my dear
Lizzy?” said Jane as she finished it. “Is it not
clear enough? Does it not expressly declare
that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me
to be her sister; that she is perfectly convinced
of her brother’s indifference; and that if she
suspects the nature of my feelings for him, she
means (most kindly!) to put me on my guard?
Can there be any other opinion on the subject?”
“Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. Will you hear it?”
“Most willingly.”
“You shall have it in a few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is in love with you,
and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him to town in hope of keeping him there,
and tries to persuade you that he does not care
about you.”
Jane shook her head.
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169
“Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me. No
one who has ever seen you together can doubt
his affection. Miss Bingley, I am sure, cannot. She is not such a simpleton. Could she
have seen half as much love in Mr. Darcy for
herself, she would have ordered her wedding
clothes. But the case is this: We are not rich
enough or grand enough for them; and she is
the more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her
brother, from the notion that when there has
been one intermarriage, she may have less
trouble in achieving a second; in which there
is certainly some ingenuity, and I dare say it
would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out
of the way. But, my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley tells you her brother greatly admires Miss
Darcy, he is in the smallest degree less sensible of your merit than when he took leave
of you on Tuesday, or that it will be in her
power to persuade him that, instead of being
in love with you, he is very much in love with
her friend.”
“If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,”
replied Jane, “your representation of all this
might make me quite easy. But I know the
foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of
wilfully deceiving anyone; and all that I can
hope in this case is that she is deceiving herself.”
“That is right. You could not have started a
more happy idea, since you will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived, by all
means. You have now done your duty by her,
and must fret no longer.”
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“But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even
supposing the best, in accepting a man whose
sisters and friends are all wishing him to
marry elsewhere?”
“You must decide for yourself,” said Elizabeth; “and if, upon mature deliberation, you
find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness
of being his wife, I advise you by all means to
refuse him.”
“How can you talk so?” said Jane, faintly
smiling. “You must know that though I should
be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could not hesitate.”
“I did not think you would; and that being
the case, I cannot consider your situation with
much compassion.”
“But if he returns no more this winter, my
choice will never be required. A thousand
things may arise in six months!”
The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline’s interested wishes, and she could not
for a moment suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence
a young man so totally independent of everyone.
She represented to her sister as forcibly
as possible what she felt on the subject, and
had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect. Jane’s temper was not desponding, and
she was gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the
hope, that Bingley would return to Nether-
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field and answer every wish of her heart.
They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only
hear of the departure of the family, without
being alarmed on the score of the gentleman’s
conduct; but even this partial communication
gave her a great deal of concern, and she
bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the
ladies should happen to go away just as they
were all getting so intimate together. After
lamenting it, however, at some length, she
had the consolation that Mr. Bingley would
be soon down again and soon dining at Longbourn, and the conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration, that though he had been
invited only to a family dinner, she would take
care to have two full courses.
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Chapter 22
The Bennets were engaged to dine with the
Lucases and again during the chief of the
day was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to
Mr. Collins. Elizabeth took an opportunity of
thanking her. “It keeps him in good humour,”
said she, “and I am more obliged to you than
I can express.” Charlotte assured her friend
of her satisfaction in being useful, and that
it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of
her time. This was very amiable, but Charlotte’s kindness extended farther than Elizabeth had any conception of; its object was
nothing else than to secure her from any return of Mr. Collins’s addresses, by engaging
them towards herself. Such was Miss Lucas’s
scheme; and appearances were so favourable,
that when they parted at night, she would
have felt almost secure of success if he had
not been to leave Hertfordshire so very soon.
But here she did injustice to the fire and independence of his character, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw himself at her feet. He
was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins,
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from a conviction that if they saw him depart,
they could not fail to conjecture his design,
and he was not willing to have the attempt
known till its success might be known likewise; for though feeling almost secure, and
with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably
encouraging, he was comparatively diffident
since the adventure of Wednesday. His reception, however, was of the most flattering kind.
Miss Lucas perceived him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and instantly set out to meet him accidentally in the
lane. But little had she dared to hope that so
much love and eloquence awaited her there.
In as short a time as Mr. Collins’s long
speeches would allow, everything was settled
between them to the satisfaction of both; and
as they entered the house he earnestly entreated her to name the day that was to make
him the happiest of men; and though such a
solicitation must be waived for the present,
the lady felt no inclination to trifle with his
happiness. The stupidity with which he was
favoured by nature must guard his courtship
from any charm that could make a woman
wish for its continuance; and Miss Lucas, who
accepted him solely from the pure and disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not
how soon that establishment were gained.
Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent; and it was
bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr.
Collins’s present circumstances made it a
most eligible match for their daughter, to
whom they could give little fortune; and his
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175
prospects of future wealth were exceedingly
fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate,
with more interest than the matter had ever
excited before, how many years longer Mr.
Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William
gave it as his decided opinion, that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the
Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his wife should make
their appearance at St. James’s. The whole
family, in short, were properly overjoyed on
the occasion. The younger girls formed hopes
of coming out a year or two sooner than they
might otherwise have done; and the boys were
relieved from their apprehension of Charlotte’s dying an old maid. Charlotte herself
was tolerably composed. She had gained her
point, and had time to consider of it. Her
reflections were in general satisfactory. Mr.
Collins, to be sure, was neither sensible nor
agreeable; his society was irksome, and his
attachment to her must be imaginary. But
still he would be her husband. Without thinking highly either of men or matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it was the
only provision for well-educated young women
of small fortune, and however uncertain of
giving happiness, must be their pleasantest
preservative from want. This preservative she
had now obtained; and at the age of twentyseven, without having ever been handsome,
she felt all the good luck of it. The least agreeable circumstance in the business was the surprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet,
whose friendship she valued beyond that of
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any other person. Elizabeth would wonder,
and probably would blame her; and though
her resolution was not to be shaken, her feelings must be hurt by such a disapprobation.
She resolved to give her the information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins, when
he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop
no hint of what had passed before any of the
family. A promise of secrecy was of course very
dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his
long absence burst forth in such very direct
questions on his return as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time
exercising great self-denial, for he was longing
to publish his prosperous love.
As he was to begin his journey too early on
the morrow to see any of the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the
ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet,
with great politeness and cordiality, said how
happy they should be to see him at Longbourn
again, whenever his engagements might allow him to visit them.
“My dear madam,” he replied, “this invitation is particularly gratifying, because it is
what I have been hoping to receive; and you
may be very certain that I shall avail myself
of it as soon as possible.”
They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet,
who could by no means wish for so speedy a
return, immediately said:
“But is there not danger of Lady Catherine’s disapprobation here, my good sir? You
had better neglect your relations than run the
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risk of offending your patroness.”
“My dear sir,” replied Mr. Collins,” I am
particularly obliged to you for this friendly
caution, and you may depend upon my not
taking so material a step without her ladyship’s concurrence.”
“You cannot be too much upon your guard.
Risk anything rather than her displeasure;
and if you find it likely to be raised by your
coming to us again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home, and
be satisfied that we shall take no offence.”
“Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is
warmly excited by such affectionate attention;
and depend upon it, you will speedily receive
from me a letter of thanks for this, and for
every other mark of your regard during my
stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins,
though my absence may not be long enough
to render it necessary, I shall now take the
liberty of wishing them health and happiness,
not excepting my cousin Elizabeth.”
With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally surprised that
he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet
wished to understand by it that he thought
of paying his addresses to one of her younger
girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on
to accept him. She rated his abilities much
higher than any of the others; there was a solidity in his reflections which often struck her,
and though by no means so clever as herself,
she thought that if encouraged to read and
improve himself by such an example as hers,
he might become a very agreeable companion.
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But on the following morning, every hope of
this kind was done away. Miss Lucas called
soon after breakfast, and in a private conference with Elizabeth related the event of the
day before.
The possibility of Mr. Collins’s fancying
herself in love with her friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or
two; but that Charlotte could encourage him
seemed almost as far from possibility as she
could encourage him herself, and her astonishment was consequently so great as to overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and she
could not help crying out:
“Engaged to Mr. Collins!
My dear
Charlotte—impossible!”
The steady countenance which Miss Lucas
had commanded in telling her story, gave way
to a momentary confusion here on receiving
so direct a reproach; though, as it was no more
than she expected, she soon regained her composure, and calmly replied:
“Why should you be surprised, my dear
Eliza? Do you think it incredible that Mr.
Collins should be able to procure any woman’s
good opinion, because he was not so happy as
to succeed with you?”
But Elizabeth had now recollected herself, and making a strong effort for it, was
able to assure with tolerable firmness that
the prospect of their relationship was highly
grateful to her, and that she wished her all
imaginable happiness.
“I see what you are feeling,” replied Charlotte. “You must be surprised, very much
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surprised—so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to marry you. But when you have had time
to think it over, I hope you will be satisfied
with what I have done. I am not romantic,
you know; I never was. I ask only a comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins’s character, connection, and situation in life, I am
convinced that my chance of happiness with
him is as fair as most people can boast on entering the marriage state.”
Elizabeth quietly answered “Undoubtedly;” and after an awkward pause, they returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte
did not stay much longer, and Elizabeth was
then left to reflect on what she had heard. It
was a long time before she became at all reconciled to the idea of so unsuitable a match.
The strangeness of Mr. Collins’s making two
offers of marriage within three days was nothing in comparison of his being now accepted.
She had always felt that Charlotte’s opinion of
matrimony was not exactly like her own, but
she had not supposed it to be possible that,
when called into action, she would have sacrificed every better feeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins was
a most humiliating picture! And to the pang
of a friend disgracing herself and sunk in her
esteem, was added the distressing conviction
that it was impossible for that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot she had chosen.
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Chapter 23
Elizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what she had heard, and
doubting whether she was authorised to mention it, when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter, to announce her
engagement to the family. With many compliments to them, and much self-gratulation
on the prospect of a connection between the
houses, he unfolded the matter—to an audience not merely wondering, but incredulous;
for Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance than
politeness, protested he must be entirely mistaken; and Lydia, always unguarded and often uncivil, boisterously exclaimed:
“Good Lord! Sir William, how can you
tell such a story? Do not you know that Mr.
Collins wants to marry Lizzy?”
Nothing less than the complaisance of a
courtier could have borne without anger such
treatment; but Sir William’s good breeding
carried him through it all; and though he
begged leave to be positive as to the truth of
his information, he listened to all their impertinence with the most forbearing courtesy.
Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to
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relieve him from so unpleasant a situation,
now put herself forward to confirm his account, by mentioning her prior knowledge of
it from Charlotte herself; and endeavoured to
put a stop to the exclamations of her mother
and sisters by the earnestness of her congratulations to Sir William, in which she was
readily joined by Jane, and by making a variety of remarks on the happiness that might be
expected from the match, the excellent character of Mr. Collins, and the convenient distance of Hunsford from London.
Mrs. Bennet was in fact too much overpowered to say a great deal while Sir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than
her feelings found a rapid vent. In the first
place, she persisted in disbelieving the whole
of the matter; secondly, she was very sure
that Mr. Collins had been taken in; thirdly,
she trusted that they would never be happy
together; and fourthly, that the match might
be broken off. Two inferences, however, were
plainly deduced from the whole: one, that
Elizabeth was the real cause of the mischief;
and the other that she herself had been barbarously misused by them all; and on these
two points she principally dwelt during the
rest of the day. Nothing could console and
nothing could appease her. Nor did that day
wear out her resentment. A week elapsed before she could see Elizabeth without scolding
her, a month passed away before she could
speak to Sir William or Lady Lucas without
being rude, and many months were gone before she could at all forgive their daughter.
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183
Mr. Bennet’s emotions were much more
tranquil on the occasion, and such as he did
experience he pronounced to be of a most
agreeable sort; for it gratified him, he said, to
discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had
been used to think tolerably sensible, was as
foolish as his wife, and more foolish than his
daughter!
Jane confessed herself a little surprised at
the match; but she said less of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for their happiness; nor could Elizabeth persuade her to
consider it as improbable. Kitty and Lydia
were far from envying Miss Lucas, for Mr.
Collins was only a clergyman; and it affected
them in no other way than as a piece of news
to spread at Meryton.
Lady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to retort on Mrs. Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well
married; and she called at Longbourn rather
oftener than usual to say how happy she
was, though Mrs. Bennet’s sour looks and illnatured remarks might have been enough to
drive happiness away.
Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there
was a restraint which kept them mutually
silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded that no real confidence could ever subsist between them again. Her disappointment
in Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard to her sister, of whose rectitude and delicacy she was sure her opinion could never
be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew
daily more anxious, as Bingley had now been
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gone a week and nothing more was heard of
his return.
Jane had sent Caroline an early answer
to her letter, and was counting the days till
she might reasonably hope to hear again. The
promised letter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on Tuesday, addressed to their father,
and written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a twelvemonth’s abode in the family might have prompted. After discharging
his conscience on that head, he proceeded to
inform them, with many rapturous expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the
affection of their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it was merely
with the view of enjoying her society that
he had been so ready to close with their
kind wish of seeing him again at Longbourn,
whither he hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight; for Lady Catherine, he added,
so heartily approved his marriage, that she
wished it to take place as soon as possible,
which he trusted would be an unanswerable
argument with his amiable Charlotte to name
an early day for making him the happiest of
men.
Mr. Collins’s return into Hertfordshire was
no longer a matter of pleasure to Mrs. Bennet.
On the contrary, she was as much disposed to
complain of it as her husband. It was very
strange that he should come to Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient and exceedingly troublesome. She
hated having visitors in the house while her
health was so indifferent, and lovers were of
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185
all people the most disagreeable. Such were
the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and they
gave way only to the greater distress of Mr.
Bingley’s continued absence.
Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day after day passed
away without bringing any other tidings of
him than the report which shortly prevailed
in Meryton of his coming no more to Netherfield the whole winter; a report which highly
incensed Mrs. Bennet, and which she never
failed to contradict as a most scandalous falsehood.
Even Elizabeth began to fear—not that
Bingley was indifferent—but that his sisters
would be successful in keeping him away. Unwilling as she was to admit an idea so destructive of Jane’s happiness, and so dishonorable
to the stability of her lover, she could not prevent its frequently occurring. The united efforts of his two unfeeling sisters and of his
overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions of Miss Darcy and the amusements of
London might be too much, she feared, for the
strength of his attachment.
As for Jane, her anxiety under this suspense was, of course, more painful than Elizabeth’s, but whatever she felt she was desirous
of concealing, and between herself and Elizabeth, therefore, the subject was never alluded
to. But as no such delicacy restrained her
mother, an hour seldom passed in which she
did not talk of Bingley, express her impatience
for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he did not come back she would
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think herself very ill used. It needed all Jane’s
steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable tranquillity.
Mr. Collins returned most punctually on
Monday fortnight, but his reception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been
on his first introduction. He was too happy,
however, to need much attention; and luckily
for the others, the business of love-making relieved them from a great deal of his company.
The chief of every day was spent by him at
Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to
Longbourn only in time to make an apology
for his absence before the family went to bed.
Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable
state. The very mention of anything concerning the match threw her into an agony of illhumour, and wherever she went she was sure
of hearing it talked of. The sight of Miss Lucas was odious to her. As her successor in that
house, she regarded her with jealous abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see them,
she concluded her to be anticipating the hour
of possession; and whenever she spoke in a
low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that
they were talking of the Longbourn estate,
and resolving to turn herself and her daughters out of the house, as soon as Mr. Bennet
were dead. She complained bitterly of all this
to her husband.
“Indeed, Mr. Bennet,” said she, “it is very
hard to think that Charlotte Lucas should
ever be mistress of this house, that I should
be forced to make way for her, and live to see
her take her place in it!”
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187
“My dear, do not give way to such gloomy
thoughts. Let us hope for better things. Let us
flatter ourselves that I may be the survivor.”
This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet, and therefore, instead of making any answer, she went on as before.
“I cannot bear to think that they should
have all this estate. If it was not for the entail, I should not mind it.”
“What should not you mind?”
“I should not mind anything at all.”
“Let us be thankful that you are preserved
from a state of such insensibility.”
“I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for
anything about the entail. How anyone could
have the conscience to entail away an estate
from one’s own daughters, I cannot understand; and all for the sake of Mr. Collins too!
Why should he have it more than anybody
else?”
“I leave it to yourself to determine,” said
Mr. Bennet.
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Chapter 24
Miss Bingley’s letter arrived, and put an end
to doubt. The very first sentence conveyed the
assurance of their being all settled in London for the winter, and concluded with her
brother’s regret at not having had time to pay
his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left the country.
Hope was over, entirely over; and when
Jane could attend to the rest of the letter, she
found little, except the professed affection of
the writer, that could give her any comfort.
Miss Darcy’s praise occupied the chief of it.
Her many attractions were again dwelt on,
and Caroline boasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict the accomplishment of the wishes which had been
unfolded in her former letter. She wrote also
with great pleasure of her brother’s being an
inmate of Mr. Darcy’s house, and mentioned
with raptures some plans of the latter with regard to new furniture.
Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this, heard it in
silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern for her sister, and resentment
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Pride and Prejudice
against all others. To Caroline’s assertion of
her brother’s being partial to Miss Darcy she
paid no credit. That he was really fond of
Jane, she doubted no more than she had ever
done; and much as she had always been disposed to like him, she could not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on that
easiness of temper, that want of proper resolution, which now made him the slave of his
designing friends, and led him to sacrifice of
his own happiness to the caprice of their inclination. Had his own happiness, however,
been the only sacrifice, he might have been
allowed to sport with it in whatever manner
he thought best, but her sister’s was involved
in it, as she thought he must be sensible himself. It was a subject, in short, on which reflection would be long indulged, and must be unavailing. She could think of nothing else; and
yet whether Bingley’s regard had really died
away, or were suppressed by his friends’ interference; whether he had been aware of Jane’s
attachment, or whether it had escaped his observation; whatever were the case, though her
opinion of him must be materially affected by
the difference, her sister’s situation remained
the same, her peace equally wounded.
A day or two passed before Jane had
courage to speak of her feelings to Elizabeth;
but at last, on Mrs. Bennet’s leaving them
together, after a longer irritation than usual
about Netherfield and its master, she could
not help saying:
“Oh, that my dear mother had more command over herself! She can have no idea of
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the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him. But I will not repine. It cannot
last long. He will be forgot, and we shall all be
as we were before.”
Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but said nothing.
“You doubt me,” cried Jane, slightly colouring; “indeed, you have no reason. He may live
in my memory as the most amiable man of my
acquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing
either to hope or fear, and nothing to reproach
him with. Thank God! I have not that pain. A
little time, therefore—I shall certainly try to
get the better.”
With a stronger voice she soon added, “I
have this comfort immediately, that it has not
been more than an error of fancy on my side,
and that it has done no harm to anyone but
myself.”
“My dear Jane!” exclaimed Elizabeth, “you
are too good. Your sweetness and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what
to say to you. I feel as if I had never done you
justice, or loved you as you deserve.”
Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back the praise
on her sister’s warm affection.
“Nay,” said Elizabeth, “this is not fair. You
wish to think all the world respectable, and
are hurt if I speak ill of anybody. I only
want to think you perfect, and you set yourself against it. Do not be afraid of my running
into any excess, of my encroaching on your
privilege of universal good-will. You need not.
There are few people whom I really love, and
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still fewer of whom I think well. The more
I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief
of the inconsistency of all human characters,
and of the little dependence that can be placed
on the appearance of merit or sense. I have
met with two instances lately, one I will not
mention; the other is Charlotte’s marriage. It
is unaccountable! In every view it is unaccountable!”
“My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such
feelings as these. They will ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough
for difference of situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins’s respectability, and Charlotte’s steady, prudent character. Remember
that she is one of a large family; that as to fortune, it is a most eligible match; and be ready
to believe, for everybody’s sake, that she may
feel something like regard and esteem for our
cousin.”
“To oblige you, I would try to believe almost anything, but no one else could be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I persuaded that Charlotte had any regard for him,
I should only think worse of her understanding than I now do of her heart. My dear Jane,
Mr. Collins is a conceited, pompous, narrowminded, silly man; you know he is, as well as
I do; and you must feel, as well as I do, that
the woman who married him cannot have a
proper way of thinking. You shall not defend
her, though it is Charlotte Lucas. You shall
not, for the sake of one individual, change
the meaning of principle and integrity, nor en-
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deavour to persuade yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility of danger security for happiness.”
“I must think your language too strong in
speaking of both,” replied Jane; “and I hope
you will be convinced of it by seeing them
happy together. But enough of this. You alluded to something else. You mentioned two
instances. I cannot misunderstand you, but
I entreat you, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by
thinking that person to blame, and saying
your opinion of him is sunk. We must not be
so ready to fancy ourselves intentionally injured. We must not expect a lively young man
to be always so guarded and circumspect. It
is very often nothing but our own vanity that
deceives us. Women fancy admiration means
more than it does.”
“And men take care that they should.”
“If it is designedly done, they cannot be
justified; but I have no idea of there being
so much design in the world as some persons
imagine.”
“I am far from attributing any part of Mr.
Bingley’s conduct to design,” said Elizabeth;
“but without scheming to do wrong, or to make
others unhappy, there may be error, and there
may be misery. Thoughtlessness, want of attention to other people’s feelings, and want of
resolution, will do the business.”
“And do you impute it to either of those?”
“Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by saying what I think of persons
you esteem. Stop me whilst you can.”
“You persist, then, in supposing his sisters
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influence him?”
“Yes, in conjunction with his friend.”
“I cannot believe it. Why should they try
to influence him? They can only wish his happiness; and if he is attached to me, no other
woman can secure it.”
“Your first position is false. They may wish
many things besides his happiness; they may
wish his increase of wealth and consequence;
they may wish him to marry a girl who has all
the importance of money, great connections,
and pride.”
“Beyond a doubt, they do wish him to
choose Miss Darcy,” replied Jane; “but this
may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They have known her much longer
than they have known me; no wonder if they
love her better. But, whatever may be their
own wishes, it is very unlikely they should
have opposed their brother’s. What sister
would think herself at liberty to do it, unless
there were something very objectionable? If
they believed him attached to me, they would
not try to part us; if he were so, they could
not succeed. By supposing such an affection,
you make everybody acting unnaturally and
wrong, and me most unhappy. Do not distress
me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having
been mistaken—or, at least, it is light, it is
nothing in comparison of what I should feel in
thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let me take
it in the best light, in the light in which it may
be understood.”
Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish;
and from this time Mr. Bingley’s name was
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195
scarcely ever mentioned between them.
Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and
repine at his returning no more, and though a
day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not
account for it clearly, there was little chance
of her ever considering it with less perplexity.
Her daughter endeavoured to convince her of
what she did not believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely the effect of
a common and transient liking, which ceased
when he saw her no more; but though the
probability of the statement was admitted at
the time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet’s best comfort was that
Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.
Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently.
“So, Lizzy,” said he one day, “your sister is
crossed in love, I find. I congratulate her. Next
to being married, a girl likes to be crossed a
little in love now and then. It is something to
think of, and it gives her a sort of distinction
among her companions. When is your turn to
come? You will hardly bear to be long outdone
by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers
enough in Meryton to disappoint all the young
ladies in the country. Let Wickham be your
man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt
you creditably.”
“Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man
would satisfy me. We must not all expect
Jane’s good fortune.”
“True,” said Mr. Bennet, “but it is a comfort
to think that whatever of that kind may befall
you, you have an affectionate mother who will
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make the most of it.”
Mr. Wickham’s society was of material service in dispelling the gloom which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the
Longbourn family. They saw him often, and
to his other recommendations was now added
that of general unreserve. The whole of what
Elizabeth had already heard, his claims on
Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from
him, was now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and everybody was pleased to
know how much they had always disliked Mr.
Darcy before they had known anything of the
matter.
Miss Bennet was the only creature who
could suppose there might be any extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the
society of Hertfordshire; her mild and steady
candour always pleaded for allowances, and
urged the possibility of mistakes—but by everybody else Mr. Darcy was condemned as the
worst of men.
Chapter 25
After a week spent in professions of love and
schemes of felicity, Mr. Collins was called from
his amiable Charlotte by the arrival of Saturday. The pain of separation, however, might
be alleviated on his side, by preparations for
the reception of his bride; as he had reason to
hope, that shortly after his return into Hertfordshire, the day would be fixed that was to
make him the happiest of men. He took leave
of his relations at Longbourn with as much
solemnity as before; wished his fair cousins
health and happiness again, and promised
their father another letter of thanks.
On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had
the pleasure of receiving her brother and his
wife, who came as usual to spend the Christmas at Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly superior to
his sister, as well by nature as education. The
Netherfield ladies would have had difficulty
in believing that a man who lived by trade,
and within view of his own warehouses, could
have been so well-bred and agreeable. Mrs.
Gardiner, who was several years younger than
Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Phillips, was an ami-
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able, intelligent, elegant woman, and a great
favourite with all her Longbourn nieces. Between the two eldest and herself especially,
there subsisted a particular regard. They had
frequently been staying with her in town.
The first part of Mrs. Gardiner’s business
on her arrival was to distribute her presents
and describe the newest fashions. When this
was done she had a less active part to play. It
became her turn to listen. Mrs. Bennet had
many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They had all been very ill-used since
she last saw her sister. Two of her girls had
been upon the point of marriage, and after all
there was nothing in it.
“I do not blame Jane,” she continued, “for
Jane would have got Mr. Bingley if she could.
But Lizzy! Oh, sister! It is very hard to think
that she might have been Mr. Collins’s wife
by this time, had it not been for her own perverseness. He made her an offer in this very
room, and she refused him. The consequence
of it is, that Lady Lucas will have a daughter married before I have, and that the Longbourn estate is just as much entailed as ever.
The Lucases are very artful people indeed, sister. They are all for what they can get. I am
sorry to say it of them, but so it is. It makes
me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted
so in my own family, and to have neighbours
who think of themselves before anybody else.
However, your coming just at this time is the
greatest of comforts, and I am very glad to
hear what you tell us, of long sleeves.”
Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this
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199
news had been given before, in the course of
Jane and Elizabeth’s correspondence with her,
made her sister a slight answer, and, in compassion to her nieces, turned the conversation.
When alone with Elizabeth afterwards,
she spoke more on the subject. “It seems likely
to have been a desirable match for Jane,” said
she. “I am sorry it went off. But these things
happen so often! A young man, such as you
describe Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love
with a pretty girl for a few weeks, and when
accident separates them, so easily forgets her,
that these sort of inconsistencies are very frequent.”
“An excellent consolation in its way,” said
Elizabeth, “but it will not do for us. We do not
suffer by accident. It does not often happen
that the interference of friends will persuade
a young man of independent fortune to think
no more of a girl whom he was violently in love
with only a few days before.”
“But that expression of ‘violently in love’ is
so hackneyed, so doubtful, so indefinite, that
it gives me very little idea. It is as often applied to feelings which arise from a half-hour’s
acquaintance, as to a real, strong attachment.
Pray, how violent was Mr. Bingley’s love?”
“I never saw a more promising inclination; he was growing quite inattentive to other
people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every
time they met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own ball he offended two
or three young ladies, by not asking them to
dance; and I spoke to him twice myself, without receiving an answer. Could there be finer
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symptoms? Is not general incivility the very
essence of love?”
“Oh, yes!—of that kind of love which I
suppose him to have felt. Poor Jane! I am
sorry for her, because, with her disposition,
she may not get over it immediately. It had
better have happened to you, Lizzy; you would
have laughed yourself out of it sooner. But do
you think she would be prevailed upon to go
back with us? Change of scene might be of
service—and perhaps a little relief from home
may be as useful as anything.”
Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with
this proposal, and felt persuaded of her sister’s ready acquiescence.
“I hope,” added Mrs. Gardiner, “that no
consideration with regard to this young man
will influence her. We live in so different a
part of town, all our connections are so different, and, as you well know, we go out so little, that it is very improbable that they should
meet at all, unless he really comes to see her.”
“And that is quite impossible; for he is now
in the custody of his friend, and Mr. Darcy
would no more suffer him to call on Jane in
such a part of London! My dear aunt, how
could you think of it? Mr. Darcy may perhaps
have heard of such a place as Gracechurch
Street, but he would hardly think a month’s
ablution enough to cleanse him from its impurities, were he once to enter it; and depend
upon it, Mr. Bingley never stirs without him.”
“So much the better. I hope they will not
meet at all. But does not Jane correspond
with his sister? She will not be able to help
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201
calling.”
“She will drop the acquaintance entirely.”
But in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to place this point, as well as
the still more interesting one of Bingley’s being withheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude on the subject which convinced her,
on examination, that she did not consider it
entirely hopeless. It was possible, and sometimes she thought it probable, that his affection might be reanimated, and the influence of
his friends successfully combated by the more
natural influence of Jane’s attractions.
Miss Bennet accepted her aunt’s invitation
with pleasure; and the Bingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the same time, than
as she hoped by Caroline’s not living in the
same house with her brother, she might occasionally spend a morning with her, without
any danger of seeing him.
The Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn; and what with the Phillipses, the Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day
without its engagement. Mrs. Bennet had
so carefully provided for the entertainment of
her brother and sister, that they did not once
sit down to a family dinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the officers
always made part of it—of which officers Mr.
Wickham was sure to be one; and on these
occasion, Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious
by Elizabeth’s warm commendation, narrowly
observed them both. Without supposing them,
from what she saw, to be very seriously in
love, their preference of each other was plain
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enough to make her a little uneasy; and she
resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject
before she left Hertfordshire, and represent to
her the imprudence of encouraging such an attachment.
To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one
means of affording pleasure, unconnected
with his general powers. About ten or a
dozen years ago, before her marriage, she had
spent a considerable time in that very part
of Derbyshire to which he belonged. They
had, therefore, many acquaintances in common; and though Wickham had been little
there since the death of Darcy’s father, it was
yet in his power to give her fresher intelligence of her former friends than she had been
in the way of procuring.
Mrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and
known the late Mr. Darcy by character perfectly well. Here consequently was an inexhaustible subject of discourse. In comparing
her recollection of Pemberly with the minute
description which Wickham could give, and in
bestowing her tribute of praise on the character of its late possessor, she was delighting both him and herself. On being made acquainted with the present Mr. Darcy’s treatment of him, she tried to remember some
of that gentleman’s reputed disposition when
quite a lad which might agree with it, and was
confident at last that she recollected having
heard Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy formerly spoken
of as a very proud, ill-natured boy.
Chapter 26
Mrs. Gardiner’s caution to Elizabeth was
punctually and kindly given on the first
favourable opportunity of speaking to her
alone; after honestly telling her what she
thought, she thus went on:
“You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in
love merely because you are warned against
it; and, therefore, I am not afraid of speaking
openly. Seriously, I would have you be on your
guard. Do not involve yourself or endeavour to
involve him in an affection which the want of
fortune would make so very imprudent. I have
nothing to say against him; he is a most interesting young man; and if he had the fortune
he ought to have, I should think you could not
do better. But as it is, you must not let your
fancy run away with you. You have sense, and
we all expect you to use it. Your father would
depend on your resolution and good conduct,
I am sure. You must not disappoint your father.”
“My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.”
“Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious
likewise.”
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Pride and Prejudice
“Well, then, you need not be under any
alarm. I will take care of myself, and of Mr.
Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me,
if I can prevent it.”
“Elizabeth, you are not serious now.”
“I beg your pardon, I will try again. At
present I am not in love with Mr. Wickham;
no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all
comparison, the most agreeable man I ever
saw—and if he becomes really attached to
me—I believe it will be better that he should
not. I see the imprudence of it. Oh! That
abominable Mr. Darcy! My father’s opinion of
me does me the greatest honour, and I should
be miserable to forfeit it. My father, however,
is partial to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear
aunt, I should be very sorry to be the means
of making any of you unhappy; but since we
see every day that where there is affection,
young people are seldom withheld by immediate want of fortune from entering into engagements with each other, how can I promise to
be wiser than so many of my fellow-creatures
if I am tempted, or how am I even to know
that it would be wisdom to resist? All that I
can promise you, therefore, is not to be in a
hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first object. When I am in company
with him, I will not be wishing. In short, I
will do my best.”
“Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming here so very often. At least,
you should not remind your mother of inviting him.”
“As I did the other day,” said Elizabeth
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205
with a conscious smile: “very true, it will be
wise in me to refrain from that. But do not
imagine that he is always here so often. It is
on your account that he has been so frequently
invited this week. You know my mother’s
ideas as to the necessity of constant company
for her friends. But really, and upon my honour, I will try to do what I think to be the wisest; and now I hope you are satisfied.”
Her aunt assured her that she was, and
Elizabeth having thanked her for the kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful instance of advice being given on such a point,
without being resented.
Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire
soon after it had been quitted by the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode
with the Lucases, his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage
was now fast approaching, and she was at
length so far resigned as to think it inevitable,
and even repeatedly to say, in an ill-natured
tone, that she “Wished they might be happy.”
Thursday was to be the wedding day, and on
Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit;
and when she rose to take leave, Elizabeth,
ashamed of her mother’s ungracious and reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected
herself, accompanied her out of the room.
As they went downstairs together, Charlotte
said:
“I shall depend on hearing from you very
often, Eliza.”
“That you certainly shall.”
“And I have another favour to ask you. Will
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you come and see me?”
“We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire.”
“I am not likely to leave Kent for some
time. Promise me, therefore, to come to
Hunsford.”
Elizabeth could not refuse, though she
foresaw little pleasure in the visit.
“My father and Maria are coming to me in
March,” added Charlotte, “and I hope you will
consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you
will be as welcome as either of them.”
The wedding took place; the bride and
bridegroom set off for Kent from the church
door, and everybody had as much to say, or
to hear, on the subject as usual. Elizabeth
soon heard from her friend; and their correspondence was as regular and frequent as
it had ever been; that it should be equally
unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could
never address her without feeling that all
the comfort of intimacy was over, and though
determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the sake of what had been,
rather than what was. Charlotte’s first letters were received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be curiosity to
know how she would speak of her new home,
how she would like Lady Catherine, and how
happy she would dare pronounce herself to be;
though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth
felt that Charlotte expressed herself on every point exactly as she might have foreseen.
She wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with
comforts, and mentioned nothing which she
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207
could not praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and roads, were all to her taste, and
Lady Catherine’s behaviour was most friendly
and obliging. It was Mr. Collins’s picture
of Hunsford and Rosings rationally softened;
and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait
for her own visit there to know the rest.
Jane had already written a few lines to
her sister to announce their safe arrival in
London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth
hoped it would be in her power to say something of the Bingleys.
Her impatience for this second letter was
as well rewarded as impatience generally is.
Jane had been a week in town without either seeing or hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that her
last letter to her friend from Longbourn had
by some accident been lost.
“My aunt,” she continued, “is going tomorrow into that part of the town, and I shall
take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor
Street.”
She wrote again when the visit was paid,
and she had seen Miss Bingley.
“I did not think Caroline in spirits,” were her words, “but she was
very glad to see me, and reproached
me for giving her no notice of my
coming to London. I was right,
therefore, my last letter had never
reached her. I inquired after their
brother, of course. He was well, but
so much engaged with Mr. Darcy
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that they scarcely ever saw him.
I found that Miss Darcy was expected to dinner. I wish I could
see her. My visit was not long, as
Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall see them
soon here.”
Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. It
convinced her that accident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister’s being in town.
Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw
nothing of him. She endeavoured to persuade
herself that she did not regret it; but she could
no longer be blind to Miss Bingley’s inattention. After waiting at home every morning
for a fortnight, and inventing every evening
a fresh excuse for her, the visitor did at last
appear; but the shortness of her stay, and yet
more, the alteration of her manner would allow Jane to deceive herself no longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister will prove what she felt.
“My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure,
be incapable of triumphing in her
better judgement, at my expense,
when I confess myself to have been
entirely deceived in Miss Bingley’s
regard for me. But, my dear sister,
though the event has proved you
right, do not think me obstinate if
I still assert that, considering what
her behaviour was, my confidence
was as natural as your suspicion. I
Chapter 26
do not at all comprehend her reason for wishing to be intimate with
me; but if the same circumstances
were to happen again, I am sure I
should be deceived again. Caroline
did not return my visit till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did
I receive in the meantime. When
she did come, it was very evident
that she had no pleasure in it; she
made a slight, formal apology, for
not calling before, said not a word
of wishing to see me again, and was
in every respect so altered a creature, that when she went away I
was perfectly resolved to continue
the acquaintance no longer. I pity,
though I cannot help blaming her.
She was very wrong in singling me
out as she did; I can safely say that
every advance to intimacy began on
her side. But I pity her, because she
must feel that she has been acting
wrong, and because I am very sure
that anxiety for her brother is the
cause of it. I need not explain myself farther; and though we know
this anxiety to be quite needless,
yet if she feels it, it will easily account for her behaviour to me; and
so deservedly dear as he is to his
sister, whatever anxiety she must
feel on his behalf is natural and
amiable. I cannot but wonder, however, at her having any such fears
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Pride and Prejudice
now, because, if he had at all cared
about me, we must have met, long
ago. He knows of my being in town,
I am certain, from something she
said herself; and yet it would seem,
by her manner of talking, as if she
wanted to persuade herself that he
is really partial to Miss Darcy. I
cannot understand it. If I were not
afraid of judging harshly, I should
be almost tempted to say that there
is a strong appearance of duplicity
in all this. But I will endeavour to
banish every painful thought, and
think only of what will make me
happy—your affection, and the invariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear from
you very soon. Miss Bingley said
something of his never returning to
Netherfield again, of giving up the
house, but not with any certainty.
We had better not mention it. I am
extremely glad that you have such
pleasant accounts from our friends
at Hunsford. Pray go to see them,
with Sir William and Maria. I am
sure you will be very comfortable
there.—Yours, etc.”
This letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her
spirits returned as she considered that Jane
would no longer be duped, by the sister at
least. All expectation from the brother was
now absolutely over. She would not even wish
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211
for a renewal of his attentions. His character sunk on every review of it; and as a punishment for him, as well as a possible advantage to Jane, she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr. Darcy’s sister, as by Wickham’s account, she would make him abundantly regret what he had thrown away.
Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded
Elizabeth of her promise concerning that gentleman, and required information; and Elizabeth had such to send as might rather give
contentment to her aunt than to herself. His
apparent partiality had subsided, his attentions were over, he was the admirer of some
one else. Elizabeth was watchful enough to
see it all, but she could see it and write of it
without material pain. Her heart had been
but slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied with believing that she would have been
his only choice, had fortune permitted it. The
sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds
was the most remarkable charm of the young
lady to whom he was now rendering himself
agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted
perhaps in this case than in Charlotte’s, did
not quarrel with him for his wish of independence. Nothing, on the contrary, could be more
natural; and while able to suppose that it cost
him a few struggles to relinquish her, she was
ready to allow it a wise and desirable measure for both, and could very sincerely wish
him happy.
All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after relating the circumstances,
she thus went on: “I am now convinced, my
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Pride and Prejudice
dear aunt, that I have never been much in
love; for had I really experienced that pure
and elevating passion, I should at present detest his very name, and wish him all manner
of evil. But my feelings are not only cordial
towards him; they are even impartial towards
Miss King. I cannot find out that I hate her
at all, or that I am in the least unwilling to
think her a very good sort of girl. There can
be no love in all this. My watchfulness has
been effectual; and though I certainly should
be a more interesting object to all my acquaintances were I distractedly in love with him, I
cannot say that I regret my comparative insignificance. Importance may sometimes be
purchased too dearly. Kitty and Lydia take
his defection much more to heart than I do.
They are young in the ways of the world, and
not yet open to the mortifying conviction that
handsome young men must have something to
live on as well as the plain.”
Chapter 27
With no greater events than these in the
Longbourn family, and otherwise diversified
by little beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and sometimes cold, did January
and February pass away. March was to take
Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first
thought very seriously of going thither; but
Charlotte, she soon found, was depending on
the plan and she gradually learned to consider
it herself with greater pleasure as well as
greater certainty. Absence had increased her
desire of seeing Charlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. There was
novelty in the scheme, and as, with such
a mother and such uncompanionable sisters,
home could not be faultless, a little change
was not unwelcome for its own sake. The
journey would moreover give her a peep at
Jane; and, in short, as the time drew near, she
would have been very sorry for any delay. Everything, however, went on smoothly, and was
finally settled according to Charlotte’s first
sketch. She was to accompany Sir William
and his second daughter. The improvement
of spending a night in London was added in
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Pride and Prejudice
time, and the plan became perfect as plan
could be.
The only pain was in leaving her father,
who would certainly miss her, and who, when
it came to the point, so little liked her going,
that he told her to write to him, and almost
promised to answer her letter.
The farewell between herself and Mr.
Wickham was perfectly friendly; on his side
even more. His present pursuit could not
make him forget that Elizabeth had been the
first to excite and to deserve his attention,
the first to listen and to pity, the first to be
admired; and in his manner of bidding her
adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of what she was to expect in Lady
Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their opinion of her—their opinion of everybody—would
always coincide, there was a solicitude, an interest which she felt must ever attach her
to him with a most sincere regard; and she
parted from him convinced that, whether
married or single, he must always be her
model of the amiable and pleasing.
Her fellow-travellers the next day were not
of a kind to make her think him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter
Maria, a good-humoured girl, but as emptyheaded as himself, had nothing to say that
could be worth hearing, and were listened to
with about as much delight as the rattle of the
chaise. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but she
had known Sir William’s too long. He could
tell her nothing new of the wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities
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215
were worn out, like his information.
It was a journey of only twenty-four miles,
and they began it so early as to be in
Gracechurch Street by noon. As they drove to
Mr. Gardiner’s door, Jane was at a drawingroom window watching their arrival; when
they entered the passage she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth, looking earnestly
in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and
lovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of
little boys and girls, whose eagerness for their
cousin’s appearance would not allow them to
wait in the drawing-room, and whose shyness,
as they had not seen her for a twelvemonth,
prevented their coming lower. All was joy and
kindness. The day passed most pleasantly
away; the morning in bustle and shopping,
and the evening at one of the theatres.
Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt.
Their first object was her sister; and she was
more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to her minute inquiries, that though Jane
always struggled to support her spirits, there
were periods of dejection. It was reasonable,
however, to hope that they would not continue
long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the particulars
also of Miss Bingley’s visit in Gracechurch
Street, and repeated conversations occurring
at different times between Jane and herself,
which proved that the former had, from her
heart, given up the acquaintance.
Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on
Wickham’s desertion, and complimented her
on bearing it so well.
“But my dear Elizabeth,” she added, “what
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sort of girl is Miss King? I should be sorry to
think our friend mercenary.”
“Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference
in matrimonial affairs, between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end, and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me, because it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get a girl with only ten
thousand pounds, you want to find out that he
is mercenary.”
“If you will only tell me what sort of girl
Miss King is, I shall know what to think.”
“She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I
know no harm of her.”
“But he paid her not the smallest attention
till her grandfather’s death made her mistress
of this fortune.”
“No—what should he? If it were not allowable for him to gain my affections because I
had no money, what occasion could there be
for making love to a girl whom he did not care
about, and who was equally poor?”
“But there seems an indelicacy in directing
his attentions towards her so soon after this
event.”
“A man in distressed circumstances has
not time for all those elegant decorums which
other people may observe. If she does not object to it, why should we?”
“Her not objecting does not justify him. It
only shows her being deficient in something
herself—sense or feeling.”
“Well,” cried Elizabeth, “have it as you
choose. He shall be mercenary, and she shall
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217
be foolish.”
“No, Lizzy, that is what I do not choose.
I should be sorry, you know, to think ill of
a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire.”
“Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in Derbyshire; and
their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them
all. Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow
where I shall find a man who has not one
agreeable quality, who has neither manner
nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are
the only ones worth knowing, after all.”
“Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours
strongly of disappointment.”
Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle
and aunt in a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer.
“We have not determined how far it shall
carry us,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “but, perhaps,
to the Lakes.”
No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her acceptance of the
invitation was most ready and grateful. “Oh,
my dear, dear aunt,” she rapturously cried,
“what delight! what felicity! You give me fresh
life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and
spleen. What are young men to rocks and
mountains? Oh! what hours of transport we
shall spend! And when we do return, it shall
not be like other travellers, without being able
to give one accurate idea of anything. We
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will know where we have gone—we will recollect what we have seen. Lakes, mountains,
and rivers shall not be jumbled together in
our imaginations; nor when we attempt to
describe any particular scene, will we begin
quarreling about its relative situation. Let
our first effusions be less insupportable than
those of the generality of travellers.”
Chapter 28
Every object in the next day’s journey was new
and interesting to Elizabeth; and her spirits
were in a state of enjoyment; for she had seen
her sister looking so well as to banish all fear
for her health, and the prospect of her northern tour was a constant source of delight.
When they left the high road for the lane to
Hunsford, every eye was in search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring
it in view. The palings of Rosings Park was
their boundary on one side. Elizabeth smiled
at the recollection of all that she had heard of
its inhabitants.
At length the Parsonage was discernible.
The garden sloping to the road, the house
standing in it, the green pales, and the laurel hedge, everything declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte appeared
at the door, and the carriage stopped at the
small gate which led by a short gravel walk
to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of
the whole party. In a moment they were all
out of the chaise, rejoicing at the sight of
each other. Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend
with the liveliest pleasure, and Elizabeth was
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more and more satisfied with coming when
she found herself so affectionately received.
She saw instantly that her cousin’s manners
were not altered by his marriage; his formal
civility was just what it had been, and he detained her some minutes at the gate to hear
and satisfy his inquiries after all her family. They were then, with no other delay than
his pointing out the neatness of the entrance,
taken into the house; and as soon as they
were in the parlour, he welcomed them a second time, with ostentatious formality to his
humble abode, and punctually repeated all his
wife’s offers of refreshment.
Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his
glory; and she could not help in fancying that
in displaying the good proportion of the room,
its aspect and its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her, as if wishing to make
her feel what she had lost in refusing him.
But though everything seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to gratify him by
any sigh of repentance, and rather looked
with wonder at her friend that she could have
so cheerful an air with such a companion.
When Mr. Collins said anything of which his
wife might reasonably be ashamed, which certainly was not unseldom, she involuntarily
turned her eye on Charlotte. Once or twice
she could discern a faint blush; but in general Charlotte wisely did not hear. After sitting long enough to admire every article of
furniture in the room, from the sideboard to
the fender, to give an account of their journey, and of all that had happened in London,
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221
Mr. Collins invited them to take a stroll in the
garden, which was large and well laid out,
and to the cultivation of which he attended
himself. To work in this garden was one
of his most respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command of countenance
with which Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of the exercise, and owned she encouraged it as much as possible. Here, leading the
way through every walk and cross walk, and
scarcely allowing them an interval to utter the
praises he asked for, every view was pointed
out with a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind. He could number the fields in
every direction, and could tell how many tress
there were in the most distant clump. But of
all the views which his garden, or which the
country or kingdom could boast, none were
to be compared with the prospect of Rosings,
afforded by an opening in the trees that bordered the park nearly opposite the front of his
house. It was a handsome modern building,
well situated on rising ground.
From his garden, Mr. Collins would have
led them round his two meadows; but the
ladies, not having shoes to encounter the remains of a white frost, turned back; and
while Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte took her sister and friend over the house,
extremely well pleased, probably, to have the
opportunity of showing it without her husband’s help. It was rather small, but well
built and convenient; and everything was fitted up and arranged with a neatness and consistency of which Elizabeth gave Charlotte all
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the credit. When Mr. Collins could be forgotten, there was really an air of great comfort
throughout, and by Charlotte’s evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must be often forgotten.
She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country. It was spoken
of again while they were at dinner, when Mr.
Collins joining in, observed:
“Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the
honour of seeing Lady Catherine de Bourgh
on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need
not say you will be delighted with her. She is
all affability and condescension, and I doubt
not but you will be honoured with some portion of her notice when service is over. I have
scarcely any hesitation in saying she will include you and my sister Maria in every invitation with which she honours us during your
stay here. Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is charming. We dine at Rosings twice
every week, and are never allowed to walk
home. Her ladyship’s carriage is regularly ordered for us. I should say, one of her ladyship’s
carriages, for she has several.”
“Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman indeed,” added Charlotte, “and a
most attentive neighbour.”
“Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I
say. She is the sort of woman whom one cannot regard with too much deference.”
The evening was spent chiefly in talking
over Hertfordshire news, and telling again
what had already been written; and when it
closed, Elizabeth, in the solitude of her cham-
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223
ber, had to meditate upon Charlotte’s degree
of contentment, to understand her address in
guiding, and composure in bearing with, her
husband, and to acknowledge that it was all
done very well. She had also to anticipate how
her visit would pass, the quiet tenor of their
usual employments, the vexatious interruptions of Mr. Collins, and the gaieties of their
intercourse with Rosings. A lively imagination soon settled it all.
About the middle of the next day, as she
was in her room getting ready for a walk, a
sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole
house in confusion; and, after listening a moment, she heard somebody running upstairs
in a violent hurry, and calling loudly after her.
She opened the door and met Maria in the
landing place, who, breathless with agitation,
cried out—
“Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and
come into the dining-room, for there is such a
sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is.
Make haste, and come down this moment.”
Elizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria
would tell her nothing more, and down they
ran into the dining-room, which fronted the
lane, in quest of this wonder; It was two ladies
stopping in a low phaeton at the garden gate.
“And is this all?” cried Elizabeth. “I expected at least that the pigs were got into the
garden, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her daughter.”
“La! my dear,” said Maria, quite shocked at
the mistake, “it is not Lady Catherine. The old
lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them;
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the other is Miss de Bourgh. Only look at her.
She is quite a little creature. Who would have
thought that she could be so thin and small?”
“She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte
out of doors in all this wind. Why does she not
come in?”
“Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does.
It is the greatest of favours when Miss de
Bourgh comes in.”
“I like her appearance,” said Elizabeth,
struck with other ideas. “She looks sickly and
cross. Yes, she will do for him very well. She
will make him a very proper wife.”
Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in conversation with the ladies;
and Sir William, to Elizabeth’s high diversion,
was stationed in the doorway, in earnest contemplation of the greatness before him, and
constantly bowing whenever Miss de Bourgh
looked that way.
At length there was nothing more to be
said; the ladies drove on, and the others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner
saw the two girls than he began to congratulate them on their good fortune, which Charlotte explained by letting them know that the
whole party was asked to dine at Rosings the
next day.
Chapter 29
Mr. Collins’s triumph, in consequence of this
invitation, was complete. The power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness to his
wondering visitors, and of letting them see
her civility towards himself and his wife, was
exactly what he had wished for; and that an
opportunity of doing it should be given so
soon, was such an instance of Lady Catherine’s condescension, as he knew not how to admire enough.
“I confess,” said he, “that I should not have
been at all surprised by her ladyship’s asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the
evening at Rosings. I rather expected, from
my knowledge of her affability, that it would
happen. But who could have foreseen such
an attention as this? Who could have imagined that we should receive an invitation to
dine there (an invitation, moreover, including
the whole party) so immediately after your arrival!”
“I am the less surprised at what has happened,” replied Sir William, “from that knowledge of what the manners of the great really
are, which my situation in life has allowed me
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to acquire. About the court, such instances of
elegant breeding are not uncommon.”
Scarcely anything was talked of the whole
day or next morning but their visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing
them in what they were to expect, that the
sight of such rooms, so many servants, and so
splendid a dinner, might not wholly overpower
them.
When the ladies were separating for the
toilette, he said to Elizabeth—
“Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear
cousin, about your apparel. Lady Catherine
is far from requiring that elegance of dress in
us which becomes herself and her daughter.
I would advise you merely to put on whatever
of your clothes is superior to the rest—there is
no occasion for anything more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you for being
simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank preserved.”
While they were dressing, he came two or
three times to their different doors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady Catherine
very much objected to be kept waiting for her
dinner. Such formidable accounts of her ladyship, and her manner of living, quite frightened Maria Lucas who had been little used
to company, and she looked forward to her introduction at Rosings with as much apprehension as her father had done to his presentation
at St. James’s.
As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a mile across the park.
Every park has its beauty and its prospects;
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227
and Elizabeth saw much to be pleased with,
though she could not be in such raptures as
Mr. Collins expected the scene to inspire, and
was but slightly affected by his enumeration
of the windows in front of the house, and his
relation of what the glazing altogether had
originally cost Sir Lewis de Bourgh.
When they ascended the steps to the hall,
Maria’s alarm was every moment increasing,
and even Sir William did not look perfectly
calm. Elizabeth’s courage did not fail her.
She had heard nothing of Lady Catherine that
spoke her awful from any extraordinary talents or miraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money or rank she thought she could
witness without trepidation.
From the entrance-hall, of which Mr.
Collins pointed out, with a rapturous air, the
fine proportion and the finished ornaments,
they followed the servants through an antechamber, to the room where Lady Catherine,
her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting. Her ladyship, with great condescension,
arose to receive them; and as Mrs. Collins
had settled it with her husband that the office of introduction should be hers, it was performed in a proper manner, without any of
those apologies and thanks which he would
have thought necessary.
In spite of having been at St. James’s
Sir William was so completely awed by the
grandeur surrounding him, that he had but
just courage enough to make a very low bow,
and take his seat without saying a word; and
his daughter, frightened almost out of her
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senses, sat on the edge of her chair, not knowing which way to look. Elizabeth found herself quite equal to the scene, and could observe the three ladies before her composedly.
Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with
strongly-marked features, which might once
have been handsome. Her air was not conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them
such as to make her visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not rendered formidable
by silence; but whatever she said was spoken
in so authoritative a tone, as marked her selfimportance, and brought Mr. Wickham immediately to Elizabeth’s mind; and from the observation of the day altogether, she believed
Lady Catherine to be exactly what he represented.
When, after examining the mother, in
whose countenance and deportment she soon
found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she
turned her eyes on the daughter, she could almost have joined in Maria’s astonishment at
her being so thin and so small. There was neither in figure nor face any likeness between
the ladies. Miss de Bourgh was pale and
sickly; her features, though not plain, were
insignificant; and she spoke very little, except
in a low voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance there was nothing remarkable, and
who was entirely engaged in listening to what
she said, and placing a screen in the proper
direction before her eyes.
After sitting a few minutes, they were all
sent to one of the windows to admire the view,
Mr. Collins attending them to point out its
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229
beauties, and Lady Catherine kindly informing them that it was much better worth looking at in the summer.
The dinner was exceedingly handsome,
and there were all the servants and all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had promised;
and, as he had likewise foretold, he took his
seat at the bottom of the table, by her ladyship’s desire, and looked as if he felt that life
could furnish nothing greater. He carved, and
ate, and praised with delighted alacrity; and
every dish was commended, first by him and
then by Sir William, who was now enough recovered to echo whatever his son-in-law said,
in a manner which Elizabeth wondered Lady
Catherine could bear. But Lady Catherine
seemed gratified by their excessive admiration, and gave most gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the table proved a
novelty to them. The party did not supply
much conversation. Elizabeth was ready to
speak whenever there was an opening, but
she was seated between Charlotte and Miss
de Bourgh—the former of whom was engaged
in listening to Lady Catherine, and the latter
said not a word to her all dinner-time. Mrs.
Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching
how little Miss de Bourgh ate, pressing her to
try some other dish, and fearing she was indisposed. Maria thought speaking out of the
question, and the gentlemen did nothing but
eat and admire.
When the ladies returned to the drawingroom, there was little to be done but to hear
Lady Catherine talk, which she did without
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any intermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on every subject in so decisive
a manner, as proved that she was not used
to have her judgement controverted. She inquired into Charlotte’s domestic concerns familiarly and minutely, gave her a great deal of
advice as to the management of them all; told
her how everything ought to be regulated in so
small a family as hers, and instructed her as
to the care of her cows and her poultry. Elizabeth found that nothing was beneath this
great lady’s attention, which could furnish her
with an occasion of dictating to others. In the
intervals of her discourse with Mrs. Collins,
she addressed a variety of questions to Maria
and Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, of
whose connections she knew the least, and
who she observed to Mrs. Collins was a very
genteel, pretty kind of girl. She asked her,
at different times, how many sisters she had,
whether they were older or younger than herself, whether any of them were likely to be
married, whether they were handsome, where
they had been educated, what carriage her father kept, and what had been her mother’s
maiden name? Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of her questions but answered them
very composedly. Lady Catherine then observed,
“Your father’s estate is entailed on Mr.
Collins, I think. For your sake,” turning to
Charlotte, “I am glad of it; but otherwise I see
no occasion for entailing estates from the female line. It was not thought necessary in Sir
Lewis de Bourgh’s family. Do you play and
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231
sing, Miss Bennet?”
“A little.”
“Oh! then—some time or other we shall be
happy to hear you. Our instrument is a capital one, probably superior to— You shall try it
some day. Do your sisters play and sing?”
“One of them does.”
“Why did not you all learn? You ought all
to have learned. The Miss Webbs all play,
and their father has not so good an income as
yours. Do you draw?”
“No, not at all.”
“What, none of you?”
“Not one.”
“That is very strange. But I suppose you
had no opportunity. Your mother should have
taken you to town every spring for the benefit
of masters.”
“My mother would have had no objection,
but my father hates London.”
“Has your governess left you?”
“We never had any governess.”
“No governess! How was that possible?
Five daughters brought up at home without a
governess! I never heard of such a thing. Your
mother must have been quite a slave to your
education.”
Elizabeth could hardly help smiling as she
assured her that had not been the case.
“Then, who taught you? who attended to
you? Without a governess, you must have
been neglected.”
“Compared with some families, I believe
we were; but such of us as wished to learn
never wanted the means. We were always en-
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couraged to read, and had all the masters that
were necessary. Those who chose to be idle,
certainly might.”
“Aye, no doubt; but that is what a governess will prevent, and if I had known your
mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage one. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady
and regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is wonderful how many
families I have been the means of supplying in
that way. I am always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces of Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through
my means; and it was but the other day that
I recommended another young person, who
was merely accidentally mentioned to me, and
the family are quite delighted with her. Mrs.
Collins, did I tell you of Lady Metcalf’s calling
yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a
treasure. ‘Lady Catherine,’ said she, ‘you have
given me a treasure.’ Are any of your younger
sisters out, Miss Bennet?”
“Yes, ma’am, all.”
“All! What, all five out at once? Very odd!
And you only the second. The younger ones
out before the elder ones are married! Your
younger sisters must be very young?”
“Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps
she is full young to be much in company. But
really, ma’am, I think it would be very hard
upon younger sisters, that they should not
have their share of society and amusement,
because the elder may not have the means or
inclination to marry early. The last-born has
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233
as good a right to the pleasures of youth at the
first. And to be kept back on such a motive! I
think it would not be very likely to promote
sisterly affection or delicacy of mind.”
“Upon my word,” said her ladyship, “you
give your opinion very decidedly for so young
a person. Pray, what is your age?”
“With three younger sisters grown up,”
replied Elizabeth, smiling, “your ladyship can
hardly expect me to own it.”
Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished
at not receiving a direct answer; and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature
who had ever dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence.
“You cannot be more than twenty, I am
sure, therefore you need not conceal your age.”
“I am not one-and-twenty.”
When the gentlemen had joined them, and
tea was over, the card-tables were placed.
Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and
Mrs. Collins sat down to quadrille; and as
Miss de Bourgh chose to play at cassino, the
two girls had the honour of assisting Mrs.
Jenkinson to make up her party. Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was uttered that did not relate to the
game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson expressed
her fears of Miss de Bourgh’s being too hot
or too cold, or having too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the
other table. Lady Catherine was generally
speaking—stating the mistakes of the three
others, or relating some anecdote of herself.
Mr. Collins was employed in agreeing to ev-
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erything her ladyship said, thanking her for
every fish he won, and apologising if he
thought he won too many. Sir William did not
say much. He was storing his memory with
anecdotes and noble names.
When Lady Catherine and her daughter
had played as long as they chose, the tables
were broken up, the carriage was offered to
Mrs. Collins, gratefully accepted and immediately ordered. The party then gathered
round the fire to hear Lady Catherine determine what weather they were to have on
the morrow. From these instructions they
were summoned by the arrival of the coach;
and with many speeches of thankfulness on
Mr. Collins’s side and as many bows on Sir
William’s they departed. As soon as they had
driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on
by her cousin to give her opinion of all that she
had seen at Rosings, which, for Charlotte’s
sake, she made more favourable than it really
was. But her commendation, though costing
her some trouble, could by no means satisfy
Mr. Collins, and he was very soon obliged to
take her ladyship’s praise into his own hands.
Chapter 30
Sir William stayed only a week at Hunsford,
but his visit was long enough to convince him
of his daughter’s being most comfortably settled, and of her possessing such a husband
and such a neighbour as were not often met
with. While Sir William was with them, Mr.
Collins devoted his morning to driving him
out in his gig, and showing him the country;
but when he went away, the whole family returned to their usual employments, and Elizabeth was thankful to find that they did not
see more of her cousin by the alteration, for
the chief of the time between breakfast and
dinner was now passed by him either at work
in the garden or in reading and writing, and
looking out of the window in his own bookroom, which fronted the road. The room in
which the ladies sat was backwards. Elizabeth had at first rather wondered that Charlotte should not prefer the dining-parlour for
common use; it was a better sized room, and
had a more pleasant aspect; but she soon
saw that her friend had an excellent reason
for what she did, for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been much less in his own
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Pride and Prejudice
apartment, had they sat in one equally lively;
and she gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement.
From the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane, and were indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of
what carriages went along, and how often
especially Miss de Bourgh drove by in her
phaeton, which he never failed coming to inform them of, though it happened almost every day. She not unfrequently stopped at the
Parsonage, and had a few minutes’ conversation with Charlotte, but was scarcely ever prevailed upon to get out.
Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins
did not walk to Rosings, and not many in
which his wife did not think it necessary to
go likewise; and till Elizabeth recollected that
there might be other family livings to be disposed of, she could not understand the sacrifice of so many hours. Now and then they
were honoured with a call from her ladyship,
and nothing escaped her observation that was
passing in the room during these visits. She
examined into their employments, looked at
their work, and advised them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement of the
furniture; or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she accepted any refreshment,
seemed to do it only for the sake of finding
out that Mrs. Collins’s joints of meat were too
large for her family.
Elizabeth soon perceived, that though this
great lady was not in commission of the peace
of the county, she was a most active magis-
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237
trate in her own parish, the minutest concerns
of which were carried to her by Mr. Collins;
and whenever any of the cottagers were disposed to be quarrelsome, discontented, or too
poor, she sallied forth into the village to settle their differences, silence their complaints,
and scold them into harmony and plenty.
The entertainment of dining at Rosings
was repeated about twice a week; and, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there
being only one card-table in the evening, every such entertainment was the counterpart
of the first. Their other engagements were
few, as the style of living in the neighbourhood in general was beyond Mr. Collins’s
reach. This, however, was no evil to Elizabeth, and upon the whole she spent her time
comfortably enough; there were half-hours of
pleasant conversation with Charlotte, and the
weather was so fine for the time of year that
she had often great enjoyment out of doors.
Her favourite walk, and where she frequently
went while the others were calling on Lady
Catherine, was along the open grove which
edged that side of the park, where there was
a nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to
value but herself, and where she felt beyond
the reach of Lady Catherine’s curiosity.
In this quiet way, the first fortnight of her
visit soon passed away. Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it was to bring
an addition to the family at Rosings, which in
so small a circle must be important. Elizabeth had heard soon after her arrival that Mr.
Darcy was expected there in the course of a
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Pride and Prejudice
few weeks, and though there were not many
of her acquaintances whom she did not prefer, his coming would furnish one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties,
and she might be amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley’s designs on him were, by
his behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was
evidently destined by Lady Catherine, who
talked of his coming with the greatest satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest
admiration, and seemed almost angry to find
that he had already been frequently seen by
Miss Lucas and herself.
His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr. Collins was walking the whole
morning within view of the lodges opening
into Hunsford Lane, in order to have the earliest assurance of it, and after making his bow
as the carriage turned into the Park, hurried
home with the great intelligence. On the following morning he hastened to Rosings to pay
his respects. There were two nephews of Lady
Catherine to require them, for Mr. Darcy had
brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the
younger son of his uncle Lord ——, and, to
the great surprise of all the party, when Mr.
Collins returned, the gentlemen accompanied
him. Charlotte had seen them from her husband’s room, crossing the road, and immediately running into the other, told the girls
what an honour they might expect, adding:
“I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of
civility. Mr. Darcy would never have come so
soon to wait upon me.”
Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all
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239
right to the compliment, before their approach
was announced by the door-bell, and shortly
afterwards the three gentlemen entered the
room. Colonel Fitzwilliam, who led the way,
was about thirty, not handsome, but in person
and address most truly the gentleman. Mr.
Darcy looked just as he had been used to look
in Hertfordshire—paid his compliments, with
his usual reserve, to Mrs. Collins, and whatever might be his feelings toward her friend,
met her with every appearance of composure.
Elizabeth merely curtseyed to him without
saying a word.
Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the readiness and ease of
a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly;
but his cousin, after having addressed a slight
observation on the house and garden to Mrs.
Collins, sat for some time without speaking to
anybody. At length, however, his civility was
so far awakened as to inquire of Elizabeth after the health of her family. She answered
him in the usual way, and after a moment’s
pause, added:
“My eldest sister has been in town these
three months. Have you never happened to
see her there?”
She was perfectly sensible that he never
had; but she wished to see whether he would
betray any consciousness of what had passed
between the Bingleys and Jane, and she
thought he looked a little confused as he answered that he had never been so fortunate
as to meet Miss Bennet. The subject was pursued no farther, and the gentlemen soon after-
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wards went away.
Pride and Prejudice
Chapter 31
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s manners were very
much admired at the Parsonage, and the
ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasures of their engagements
at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they received any invitation thither—for
while there were visitors in the house, they
could not be necessary; and it was not till
Easter-day, almost a week after the gentlemen’s arrival, that they were honoured by
such an attention, and then they were merely
asked on leaving church to come there in the
evening. For the last week they had seen
very little of Lady Catherine or her daughter.
Colonel Fitzwilliam had called at the Parsonage more than once during the time, but Mr.
Darcy they had seen only at church.
The invitation was accepted of course, and
at a proper hour they joined the party in Lady
Catherine’s drawing-room. Her ladyship received them civilly, but it was plain that their
company was by no means so acceptable as
when she could get nobody else; and she was,
in fact, almost engrossed by her nephews,
speaking to them, especially to Darcy, much
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Pride and Prejudice
more than to any other person in the room.
Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to
see them; anything was a welcome relief to
him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins’s pretty
friend had moreover caught his fancy very
much. He now seated himself by her, and
talked so agreeably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying at home, of
new books and music, that Elizabeth had
never been half so well entertained in that
room before; and they conversed with so much
spirit and flow, as to draw the attention of
Lady Catherine herself, as well as of Mr.
Darcy. His eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned towards them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship, after a while,
shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not scruple to call out:
“What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam?
What is it you are talking of? What are you
telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.”
“We are speaking of music, madam,” said
he, when no longer able to avoid a reply.
“Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of
all subjects my delight. I must have my share
in the conversation if you are speaking of music. There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of music
than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had
ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her health had
allowed her to apply. I am confident that she
would have performed delightfully. How does
Georgiana get on, Darcy?”
Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of
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243
his sister’s proficiency.
“I am very glad to hear such a good account
of her,” said Lady Catherine; “and pray tell
her from me, that she cannot expect to excel
if she does not practice a good deal.”
“I assure you, madam,” he replied, “that
she does not need such advice. She practises
very constantly.”
“So much the better. It cannot be done too
much; and when I next write to her, I shall
charge her not to neglect it on any account.
I often tell young ladies that no excellence in
music is to be acquired without constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times,
that she will never play really well unless she
practises more; and though Mrs. Collins has
no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have
often told her, to come to Rosings every day,
and play on the pianoforte in Mrs. Jenkinson’s room. She would be in nobody’s way, you
know, in that part of the house.”
Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his
aunt’s ill-breeding, and made no answer.
When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam
reminded Elizabeth of having promised to
play to him; and she sat down directly to the
instrument. He drew a chair near her. Lady
Catherine listened to half a song, and then
talked, as before, to her other nephew; till the
latter walked away from her, and making with
his usual deliberation towards the pianoforte
stationed himself so as to command a full view
of the fair performer’s countenance. Elizabeth
saw what he was doing, and at the first convenient pause, turned to him with an arch smile,
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Pride and Prejudice
and said:
“You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by
coming in all this state to hear me? I will
not be alarmed though your sister does play so
well. There is a stubbornness about me that
never can bear to be frightened at the will of
others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.”
“I shall not say you are mistaken,” he
replied, “because you could not really believe
me to entertain any design of alarming you;
and I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find great
enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions
which in fact are not your own.”
Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture
of herself, and said to Colonel Fitzwilliam,
“Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of me, and teach you not to believe a word
I say. I am particularly unlucky in meeting
with a person so able to expose my real character, in a part of the world where I had hoped
to pass myself off with some degree of credit.
Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in
you to mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire—and, give me leave
to say, very impolitic too—for it is provoking
me to retaliate, and such things may come out
as will shock your relations to hear.”
“I am not afraid of you,” said he, smilingly.
“Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,” cried Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I
should like to know how he behaves among
strangers.”
“You shall hear then—but prepare yourself
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245
for something very dreadful. The first time
of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you
must know, was at a ball—and at this ball,
what do you think he did? He danced only
four dances, though gentlemen were scarce;
and, to my certain knowledge, more than one
young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.”
“I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own
party.”
“True; and nobody can ever be introduced
in a ball-room. Well, Colonel Fitzwilliam,
what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders.”
“Perhaps,” said Darcy, “I should have
judged better, had I sought an introduction;
but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to
strangers.”
“Shall we ask your cousin the reason of
this?” said Elizabeth, still addressing Colonel
Fitzwilliam. “Shall we ask him why a man of
sense and education, and who has lived in the
world, is ill qualified to recommend himself to
strangers?”
“I can answer your question,” said
Fitzwilliam, “without applying to him. It
is because he will not give himself the
trouble.”
“I certainly have not the talent which some
people possess,” said Darcy, “of conversing
easily with those I have never seen before. I
cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often
see done.”
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Pride and Prejudice
“My fingers,” said Elizabeth, “do not move
over this instrument in the masterly manner
which I see so many women’s do. They have
not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because
I will not take the trouble of practising. It is
not that I do not believe my fingers as capable
as any other woman’s of superior execution.”
Darcy smiled and said, “You are perfectly
right. You have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.”
Here they were interrupted by Lady
Catherine, who called out to know what they
were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began
playing again. Lady Catherine approached,
and, after listening for a few minutes, said to
Darcy:
“Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss
if she practised more, and could have the advantage of a London master. She has a very
good notion of fingering, though her taste is
not equal to Anne’s. Anne would have been a
delightful performer, had her health allowed
her to learn.”
Elizabeth looked at Darcy to see how cordially he assented to his cousin’s praise; but
neither at that moment nor at any other could
she discern any symptom of love; and from the
whole of his behaviour to Miss de Bourgh she
derived this comfort for Miss Bingley, that he
might have been just as likely to marry her,
had she been his relation.
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247
Lady Catherine continued her remarks on
Elizabeth’s performance, mixing with them
many instructions on execution and taste.
Elizabeth received them with all the forbearance of civility, and, at the request of the gentlemen, remained at the instrument till her
ladyship’s carriage was ready to take them all
home.
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Pride and Prejudice
Chapter 32
Elizabeth was sitting by herself the next
morning, and writing to Jane while Mrs.
Collins and Maria were gone on business into
the village, when she was startled by a ring
at the door, the certain signal of a visitor.
As she had heard no carriage, she thought it
not unlikely to be Lady Catherine, and under that apprehension was putting away her
half-finished letter that she might escape all
impertinent questions, when the door opened,
and, to her very great surprise, Mr. Darcy, and
Mr. Darcy only, entered the room.
He seemed astonished too on finding her
alone, and apologised for his intrusion by letting her know that he had understood all the
ladies were to be within.
They then sat down, and when her inquiries after Rosings were made, seemed in
danger of sinking into total silence. It was
absolutely necessary, therefore, to think of
something, and in this emergence recollecting
when she had seen him last in Hertfordshire,
and feeling curious to know what he would say
on the subject of their hasty departure, she observed:
249
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Pride and Prejudice
“How very suddenly you all quitted
Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy! It must
have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr.
Bingley to see you all after him so soon; for,
if I recollect right, he went but the day before.
He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you
left London?”
“Perfectly so, I thank you.”
She found that she was to receive no other
answer, and, after a short pause added:
“I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever returning to
Netherfield again?”
“I have never heard him say so; but it is
probable that he may spend very little of his
time there in the future. He has many friends,
and is at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually increasing.”
“If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for the neighbourhood
that he should give up the place entirely, for
then we might possibly get a settled family
there. But, perhaps, Mr. Bingley did not take
the house so much for the convenience of the
neighbourhood as for his own, and we must
expect him to keep it or quit it on the same
principle.”
“I should not be surprised,” said Darcy, “if
he were to give it up as soon as any eligible
purchase offers.”
Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid
of talking longer of his friend; and, having
nothing else to say, was now determined to
leave the trouble of finding a subject to him.
He took the hint, and soon began with,
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251
“This seems a very comfortable house. Lady
Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it
when Mr. Collins first came to Hunsford.”
“I believe she did—and I am sure she could
not have bestowed her kindness on a more
grateful object.”
“Mr. Collins appears to be very fortunate
in his choice of a wife.”
“Yes, indeed, his friends may well rejoice in
his having met with one of the very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or
have made him happy if they had. My friend
has an excellent understanding—though I am
not certain that I consider her marrying Mr.
Collins as the wisest thing she ever did. She
seems perfectly happy, however, and in a prudential light it is certainly a very good match
for her.”
“It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within so easy a distance of her own family and friends.”
“An easy distance, do you call it? It is
nearly fifty miles.”
“And what is fifty miles of good road? Little
more than half a day’s journey. Yes, I call it a
very easy distance.”
“I should never have considered the distance as one of the advantages of the match,”
cried Elizabeth. “I should never have said
Mrs. Collins was settled near her family.”
“It is a proof of your own attachment
to Hertfordshire.
Anything beyond the
very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose,
would appear far.”
As he spoke there was a sort of smile which
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Pride and Prejudice
Elizabeth fancied she understood; he must
be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and
Netherfield, and she blushed as she answered:
“I do not mean to say that a woman may
not be settled too near her family. The far
and the near must be relative, and depend
on many varying circumstances. Where there
is fortune to make the expenses of travelling
unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But
that is not the case here. Mr. and Mrs. Collins
have a comfortable income, but not such a
one as will allow of frequent journeys—and I
am persuaded my friend would not call herself near her family under less than half the
present distance.”
Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards
her, and said, “You cannot have a right to
such very strong local attachment. You cannot have been always at Longbourn.”
Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of feeling; he
drew back his chair, took a newspaper from
the table, and glancing over it, said, in a
colder voice:
“Are you pleased with Kent?”
A short dialogue on the subject of the
country ensued, on either side calm and
concise—and soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte and her sister, just returned from her walk. The tete-a-tete surprised them. Mr. Darcy related the mistake
which had occasioned his intruding on Miss
Bennet, and after sitting a few minutes longer
without saying much to anybody, went away.
“What can be the meaning of this?” said
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253
Charlotte, as soon as he was gone. “My dear,
Eliza, he must be in love with you, or he would
never have called us in this familiar way.”
But when Elizabeth told of his silence; it
did not seem very likely, even to Charlotte’s
wishes, to be the case; and after various conjectures, they could at last only suppose his
visit to proceed from the difficulty of finding
anything to do, which was the more probable
from the time of year. All field sports were
over. Within doors there was Lady Catherine, books, and a billiard-table, but gentlemen cannot always be within doors; and in
the nearness of the Parsonage, or the pleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who
lived in it, the two cousins found a temptation from this period of walking thither almost every day. They called at various times
of the morning, sometimes separately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their aunt. It was plain to them all
that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he had
pleasure in their society, a persuasion which
of course recommended him still more; and
Elizabeth was reminded by her own satisfaction in being with him, as well as by his evident admiration of her, of her former favourite
George Wickham; and though, in comparing
them, she saw there was less captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s manners, she believed he might have the best informed mind.
But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the
Parsonage, it was more difficult to understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there ten minutes together with-
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Pride and Prejudice
out opening his lips; and when he did speak,
it seemed the effect of necessity rather than
of choice—a sacrifice to propriety, not a pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared really
animated. Mrs. Collins knew not what to
make of him. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s occasionally laughing at his stupidity, proved that he
was generally different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told her; and as
she would liked to have believed this change
the effect of love, and the object of that love
her friend Eliza, she set herself seriously to
work to find it out. She watched him whenever they were at Rosings, and whenever he
came to Hunsford; but without much success.
He certainly looked at her friend a great deal,
but the expression of that look was disputable.
It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often doubted whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it seemed nothing
but absence of mind.
She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of his being partial to her,
but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and
Mrs. Collins did not think it right to press
the subject, from the danger of raising expectations which might only end in disappointment; for in her opinion it admitted not of
a doubt, that all her friend’s dislike would
vanish, if she could suppose him to be in her
power.
In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she
sometimes planned her marrying Colonel
Fitzwilliam. He was beyond comparison the
most pleasant man; he certainly admired
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255
her, and his situation in life was most eligible; but, to counterbalance these advantages,
Mr. Darcy had considerable patronage in the
church, and his cousin could have none at all.
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Pride and Prejudice
Chapter 33
More than once did Elizabeth, in her ramble within the park, unexpectedly meet Mr.
Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the mischance that should bring him where no one
else was brought, and, to prevent its ever happening again, took care to inform him at first
that it was a favourite haunt of hers. How it
could occur a second time, therefore, was very
odd! Yet it did, and even a third. It seemed
like wilful ill-nature, or a voluntary penance,
for on these occasions it was not merely a few
formal inquiries and an awkward pause and
then away, but he actually thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He never
said a great deal, nor did she give herself the
trouble of talking or of listening much; but it
struck her in the course of their third rencontre that he was asking some odd unconnected questions—about her pleasure in being at Hunsford, her love of solitary walks,
and her opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins’s happiness; and that in speaking of Rosings and
her not perfectly understanding the house, he
seemed to expect that whenever she came into
Kent again she would be staying there too.
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Pride and Prejudice
His words seemed to imply it. Could he have
Colonel Fitzwilliam in his thoughts? She supposed, if he meant anything, he must mean
and allusion to what might arise in that quarter. It distressed her a little, and she was
quite glad to find herself at the gate in the
pales opposite the Parsonage.
She was engaged one day as she walked,
in perusing Jane’s last letter, and dwelling on
some passages which proved that Jane had
not written in spirits, when, instead of being
again surprised by Mr. Darcy, she saw on looking up that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting
her. Putting away the letter immediately and
forcing a smile, she said:
“I did not know before that you ever
walked this way.”
“I have been making the tour of the park,”
he replied, “as I generally do every year, and
intend to close it with a call at the Parsonage.
Are you going much farther?”
“No, I should have turned in a moment.”
And accordingly she did turn, and they
walked towards the Parsonage together.
“Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?” said she.
“Yes—if Darcy does not put it off again.
But I am at his disposal. He arranges the
business just as he pleases.”
“And if not able to please himself in the
arrangement, he has at least pleasure in the
great power of choice. I do not know anybody
who seems more to enjoy the power of doing
what he likes than Mr. Darcy.”
“He likes to have his own way very well,”
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259
replied Colonel Fitzwilliam. “But so we all do.
It is only that he has better means of having
it than many others, because he is rich, and
many others are poor. I speak feelingly. A
younger son, you know, must be inured to selfdenial and dependence.”
“In my opinion, the younger son of an earl
can know very little of either. Now seriously,
what have you ever known of self-denial and
dependence? When have you been prevented
by want of money from going wherever you
chose, or procuring anything you had a fancy
for?”
“These are home questions—and perhaps
I cannot say that I have experienced many
hardships of that nature. But in matters of
greater weight, I may suffer from want of
money. Younger sons cannot marry where
they like.”
“Unless where they like women of fortune,
which I think they very often do.”
“Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are too many in my rank of
life who can afford to marry without some attention to money.”
“Is this,” thought Elizabeth, “meant for
me?” and she coloured at the idea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively tone, “And pray,
what is the usual price of an earl’s younger
son? Unless the elder brother is very sickly,
I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds.”
He answered her in the same style, and the
subject dropped. To interrupt a silence which
might make him fancy her affected with what
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Pride and Prejudice
had passed, she soon afterwards said:
“I imagine your cousin brought you down
with him chiefly for the sake of having someone at his disposal. I wonder he does not
marry, to secure a lasting convenience of that
kind. But, perhaps, his sister does as well for
the present, and, as she is under his sole care,
he may do what he likes with her.”
“No,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “that is an
advantage which he must divide with me. I
am joined with him in the guardianship of
Miss Darcy.”
“Are you indeed? And pray what sort of
guardians do you make? Does your charge
give you much trouble? Young ladies of her
age are sometimes a little difficult to manage,
and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she may
like to have her own way.”
As she spoke she observed him looking at
her earnestly; and the manner in which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss
Darcy likely to give them any uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other got
pretty near the truth. She directly replied:
“You need not be frightened. I never heard
any harm of her; and I dare say she is one of
the most tractable creatures in the world. She
is a very great favourite with some ladies of
my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you
know them.”
“I know them a little. Their brother is a
pleasant gentlemanlike man—he is a great
friend of Darcy’s.”
“Oh! yes,” said Elizabeth drily; “Mr. Darcy
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261
is uncommonly kind to Mr. Bingley, and takes
a prodigious deal of care of him.”
“Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy
does take care of him in those points where
he most wants care. From something that he
told me in our journey hither, I have reason
to think Bingley very much indebted to him.
But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no
right to suppose that Bingley was the person
meant. It was all conjecture.”
“What is it you mean?”
“It is a circumstance which Darcy could not
wish to be generally known, because if it were
to get round to the lady’s family, it would be
an unpleasant thing.”
“You may depend upon my not mentioning
it.”
“And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be Bingley. What he
told me was merely this: that he congratulated himself on having lately saved a friend
from the inconveniences of a most imprudent
marriage, but without mentioning names or
any other particulars, and I only suspected it
to be Bingley from believing him the kind of
young man to get into a scrape of that sort,
and from knowing them to have been together
the whole of last summer.”
“Did Mr. Darcy give you reasons for this
interference?”
“I understood that there were some very
strong objections against the lady.”
“And what arts did he use to separate
them?”
“He did not talk to me of his own arts,” said
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Pride and Prejudice
Fitzwilliam, smiling. “He only told me what I
have now told you.”
Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on,
her heart swelling with indignation. After
watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her
why she was so thoughtful.
“I am thinking of what you have been
telling me,” said she. “Your cousin’s conduct
does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be
the judge?”
“You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?”
“I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to
decide on the propriety of his friend’s inclination, or why, upon his own judgement alone,
he was to determine and direct in what manner his friend was to be happy. But,” she continued, recollecting herself, “as we know none
of the particulars, it is not fair to condemn
him. It is not to be supposed that there was
much affection in the case.”
“That is not an unnatural surmise,” said
Fitzwilliam, “but it is a lessening of the honour of my cousin’s triumph very sadly.”
This was spoken jestingly; but it appeared
to her so just a picture of Mr. Darcy, that
she would not trust herself with an answer,
and therefore, abruptly changing the conversation talked on indifferent matters until they
reached the Parsonage. There, shut into her
own room, as soon as their visitor left them,
she could think without interruption of all
that she had heard. It was not to be supposed
that any other people could be meant than
those with whom she was connected. There
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263
could not exist in the world two men over
whom Mr. Darcy could have such boundless
influence. That he had been concerned in the
measures taken to separate Bingley and Jane
she had never doubted; but she had always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design
and arrangement of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him, he was the
cause, his pride and caprice were the cause, of
all that Jane had suffered, and still continued
to suffer. He had ruined for a while every hope
of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart in the world; and no one could say
how lasting an evil he might have inflicted.
“There were some very strong objections
against the lady,” were Colonel Fitzwilliam’s
words; and those strong objections probably
were, her having one uncle who was a country
attorney, and another who was in business in
London.
“To Jane herself,” she exclaimed, “there
could be no possibility of objection; all loveliness and goodness as she is!—her understanding excellent, her mind improved, and
her manners captivating.
Neither could
anything be urged against my father, who,
though with some peculiarities, has abilities Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain, and
respectability which he will probably never
each.” When she thought of her mother, her
confidence gave way a little; but she would not
allow that any objections there had material
weight with Mr. Darcy, whose pride, she was
convinced, would receive a deeper wound from
the want of importance in his friend’s connec-
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tions, than from their want of sense; and she
was quite decided, at last, that he had been
partly governed by this worst kind of pride,
and partly by the wish of retaining Mr. Bingley for his sister.
The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned, brought on a headache; and
it grew so much worse towards the evening,
that, added to her unwillingness to see Mr.
Darcy, it determined her not to attend her
cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged
to drink tea. Mrs. Collins, seeing that she was
really unwell, did not press her to go and as
much as possible prevented her husband from
pressing her; but Mr. Collins could not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine’s being rather displeased by her staying at home.
Chapter 34
When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as much as possible
against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment
the examination of all the letters which Jane
had written to her since her being in Kent.
They contained no actual complaint, nor was
there any revival of past occurrences, or any
communication of present suffering. But in
all, and in almost every line of each, there was
a want of that cheerfulness which had been
used to characterise her style, and which, proceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease
with itself and kindly disposed towards everyone, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth noticed every sentence conveying the
idea of uneasiness, with an attention which
it had hardly received on the first perusal.
Mr. Darcy’s shameful boast of what misery he
had been able to inflict, gave her a keener
sense of her sister’s sufferings. It was some
consolation to think that his visit to Rosings
was to end on the day after the next—and,
a still greater, that in less than a fortnight
she should herself be with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her spir-
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its, by all that affection could do.
She could not think of Darcy’s leaving Kent
without remembering that his cousin was to
go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had
made it clear that he had no intentions at all,
and agreeable as he was, she did not mean to
be unhappy about him.
While settling this point, she was suddenly
roused by the sound of the door-bell, and her
spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its
being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had
once before called late in the evening, and
might now come to inquire particularly after
her. But this idea was soon banished, and her
spirits were very differently affected, when, to
her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk
into the room. In an hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she
were better. She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and then
getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth
was surprised, but said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her
in an agitated manner, and thus began:
“In vain I have struggled. It will not do.
My feelings will not be repressed. You must
allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and
love you.”
Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured, doubted, and
was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement; and the avowal of all that he
felt, and had long felt for her, immediately
followed. He spoke well; but there were feel-
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267
ings besides those of the heart to be detailed;
and he was not more eloquent on the subject
of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her
inferiority—of its being a degradation—of the
family obstacles which had always opposed
to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth
which seemed due to the consequence he was
wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.
In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she
could not be insensible to the compliment of
such a man’s affection, and though her intentions did not vary for an instant, she was at
first sorry for the pain he was to receive; till,
roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she lost all compassion in anger. She
tried, however, to compose herself to answer
him with patience, when he should have done.
He concluded with representing to her the
strength of that attachment which, in spite of
all his endeavours, he had found impossible
to conquer; and with expressing his hope that
it would now be rewarded by her acceptance
of his hand. As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt of a favourable
answer. He spoke of apprehension and anxiety, but his countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only exasperate farther, and, when he ceased, the colour
rose into her cheeks, and she said:
“In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the
established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however
unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I
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could feel gratitude, I would now thank you.
But I cannot—I have never desired your good
opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it
most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be
of short duration. The feelings which, you
tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty
in overcoming it after this explanation.”
Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the
mantelpiece with his eyes fixed on her face,
seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of
his mind was visible in every feature. He was
struggling for the appearance of composure,
and would not open his lips till he believed
himself to have attained it. The pause was to
Elizabeth’s feelings dreadful. At length, with
a voice of forced calmness, he said:
“And this is all the reply which I am to
have the honour of expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little
endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected. But
it is of small importance.”
“I might as well inquire,” replied she, “why
with so evident a desire of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked
me against your will, against your reason, and
even against your character? Was not this
some excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil? But
I have other provocations. You know I have.
Had not my feelings decided against you—had
they been indifferent, or had they even been
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269
favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who
has been the means of ruining, perhaps for
ever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?”
As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy
changed colour; but the emotion was short,
and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she continued:
“I have every reason in the world to think
ill of you. No motive can excuse the unjust
and ungenerous part you acted there. You
dare not, you cannot deny, that you have been
the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from each other—of exposing one to
the censure of the world for caprice and instability, and the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in
misery of the acutest kind.”
She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening with an air which
proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of
remorse. He even looked at her with a smile
of affected incredulity.
“Can you deny that you have done it?” she
repeated.
With assumed tranquillity he then replied:
“I have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from
your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards him I have been kinder than towards
myself.”
Elizabeth disdained the appearance of
noticing this civil reflection, but its meaning
did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate
her.
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“But it is not merely this affair,” she continued, “on which my dislike is founded. Long
before it had taken place my opinion of you
was decided. Your character was unfolded in
the recital which I received many months ago
from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can
you have to say? In what imaginary act of
friendship can you here defend yourself? or
under what misrepresentation can you here
impose upon others?”
“You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns,” said Darcy, in a less tranquil
tone, and with a heightened colour.
“Who that knows what his misfortunes
have been, can help feeling an interest in
him?”
“His misfortunes!” repeated Darcy contemptuously; “yes, his misfortunes have been
great indeed.”
“And of your infliction,” cried Elizabeth
with energy.
“You have reduced him to
his present state of poverty—comparative
poverty. You have withheld the advantages
which you must know to have been designed
for him. You have deprived the best years of
his life of that independence which was no less
his due than his desert. You have done all
this! and yet you can treat the mention of his
misfortune with contempt and ridicule.”
“And this,” cried Darcy, as he walked with
quick steps across the room, “is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which
you hold me! I thank you for explaining it
so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps,”
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271
added he, stopping in his walk, and turning
towards her, “these offenses might have been
overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by
my honest confession of the scruples that had
long prevented my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might have
been suppressed, had I, with greater policy,
concealed my struggles, and flattered you into
the belief of my being impelled by unqualified,
unalloyed inclination; by reason, by reflection,
by everything. But disguise of every sort is my
abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings
I related. They were natural and just. Could
you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of
your connections?—to congratulate myself on
the hope of relations, whose condition in life is
so decidedly beneath my own?”
Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry
every moment; yet she tried to the utmost to
speak with composure when she said:
“You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared
the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.”
She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued:
“You could not have made the offer of your
hand in any possible way that would have
tempted me to accept it.”
Again his astonishment was obvious; and
he looked at her with an expression of mingled
incredulity and mortification. She went on:
“From the very beginning—from the first
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moment, I may almost say—of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing
me with the fullest belief of your arrogance,
your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the
feelings of others, were such as to form the
groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before
I felt that you were the last man in the world
whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”
“You have said quite enough, madam. I
perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have
now only to be ashamed of what my own have
been. Forgive me for having taken up so much
of your time, and accept my best wishes for
your health and happiness.”
And with these words he hastily left the
room, and Elizabeth heard him the next moment open the front door and quit the house.
The tumult of her mind, was now painfully
great. She knew not how to support herself,
and from actual weakness sat down and cried
for half-an-hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was increased by
every review of it. That she should receive
an offer of marriage from Mr. Darcy! That he
should have been in love with her for so many
months! So much in love as to wish to marry
her in spite of all the objections which had
made him prevent his friend’s marrying her
sister, and which must appear at least with
equal force in his own case—was almost incredible! It was gratifying to have inspired
unconsciously so strong an affection. But
his pride, his abominable pride—his shame-
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273
less avowal of what he had done with respect
to Jane—his unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not justify it,
and the unfeeling manner in which he had
mentioned Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards
whom he had not attempted to deny, soon
overcame the pity which the consideration of
his attachment had for a moment excited. She
continued in very agitated reflections till the
sound of Lady Catherine’s carriage made her
feel how unequal she was to encounter Charlotte’s observation, and hurried her away to
her room.
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Chapter 35
Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the
same thoughts and meditations which had at
length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the surprise of what had happened;
it was impossible to think of anything else;
and, totally indisposed for employment, she
resolved, soon after breakfast, to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding
directly to her favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy’s sometimes coming there
stopped her, and instead of entering the park,
she turned up the lane, which led farther from
the turnpike-road. The park paling was still
the boundary on one side, and she soon passed
one of the gates into the ground.
After walking two or three times along
that part of the lane, she was tempted, by the
pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the
gates and look into the park. The five weeks
which she had now passed in Kent had made
a great difference in the country, and every
day was adding to the verdure of the early
trees. She was on the point of continuing her
walk, when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which edged the
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park; he was moving that way; and, fearful
of its being Mr. Darcy, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced was
now near enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced her name.
She had turned away; but on hearing herself
called, though in a voice which proved it to
be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the
gate. He had by that time reached it also, and,
holding out a letter, which she instinctively
took, said, with a look of haughty composure,
“I have been walking in the grove some time
in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the
honour of reading that letter?” And then, with
a slight bow, turned again into the plantation,
and was soon out of sight.
With no expectation of pleasure, but with
the strongest curiosity, Elizabeth opened the
letter, and, to her still increasing wonder, perceived an envelope containing two sheets of
letter-paper, written quite through, in a very
close hand. The envelope itself was likewise
full. Pursuing her way along the lane, she
then began it. It was dated from Rosings,
at eight o’clock in the morning, and was as
follows:—
“Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition
of those sentiments or renewal of
those offers which were last night
so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining you,
or humbling myself, by dwelling on
Chapter 35
wishes which, for the happiness of
both, cannot be too soon forgotten;
and the effort which the formation
and the perusal of this letter must
occasion, should have been spared,
had not my character required it
to be written and read. You must,
therefore, pardon the freedom with
which I demand your attention;
your feelings, I know, will bestow it
unwillingly, but I demand it of your
justice.
“Two offenses of a very different
nature, and by no means of equal
magnitude, you last night laid to
my charge. The first mentioned
was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached
Mr. Bingley from your sister, and
the other, that I had, in defiance of
various claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity and blasted the
prospects of Mr. Wickham. Wilfully
and wantonly to have thrown off
the companion of my youth, the acknowledged favourite of my father,
a young man who had scarcely any
other dependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought
up to expect its exertion, would be a
depravity, to which the separation
of two young persons, whose affection could be the growth of only
a few weeks, could bear no com-
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parison. But from the severity of
that blame which was last night so
liberally bestowed, respecting each
circumstance, I shall hope to be in
the future secured, when the following account of my actions and
their motives has been read. If,
in the explanation of them, which
is due to myself, I am under the
necessity of relating feelings which
may be offensive to yours, I can
only say that I am sorry. The necessity must be obeyed, and further
apology would be absurd.
“I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common
with others, that Bingley preferred
your elder sister to any other young
woman in the country. But it was
not till the evening of the dance
at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a serious attachment. I had often seen
him in love before. At that ball,
while I had the honour of dancing with you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir William Lucas’s
accidental information, that Bingley’s attentions to your sister had
given rise to a general expectation
of their marriage. He spoke of it as
a certain event, of which the time
alone could be undecided. From
that moment I observed my friend’s
behaviour attentively; and I could
Chapter 35
then perceive that his partiality for
Miss Bennet was beyond what I
had ever witnessed in him. Your
sister I also watched. Her look
and manners were open, cheerful,
and engaging as ever, but without
any symptom of peculiar regard,
and I remained convinced from the
evening’s scrutiny, that though she
received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by
any participation of sentiment. If
you have not been mistaken here,
I must have been in error. Your
superior knowledge of your sister
must make the latter probable. If
it be so, if I have been misled by
such error to inflict pain on her,
your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert, that the serenity of
your sister’s countenance and air
was such as might have given the
most acute observer a conviction
that, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to
be easily touched. That I was desirous of believing her indifferent
is certain—but I will venture to say
that my investigation and decisions
are not usually influenced by my
hopes or fears. I did not believe her
to be indifferent because I wished
it; I believed it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in
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reason. My objections to the marriage were not merely those which
I last night acknowledged to have
the utmost force of passion to put
aside, in my own case; the want
of connection could not be so great
an evil to my friend as to me. But
there were other causes of repugnance; causes which, though still
existing, and existing to an equal
degree in both instances, I had myself endeavoured to forget, because
they were not immediately before
me. These causes must be stated,
though briefly. The situation of
your mother’s family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison to that total want of propriety
so frequently, so almost uniformly
betrayed by herself, by your three
younger sisters, and occasionally
even by your father. Pardon me.
It pains me to offend you. But
amidst your concern for the defects
of your nearest relations, and your
displeasure at this representation
of them, let it give you consolation to consider that, to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid
any share of the like censure, is
praise no less generally bestowed
on you and your elder sister, than
it is honourable to the sense and
disposition of both. I will only
say farther that from what passed
Chapter 35
that evening, my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every inducement heightened which could
have led me before, to preserve
my friend from what I esteemed a
most unhappy connection. He left
Netherfield for London, on the day
following, as you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon returning.
“The part which I acted is now
to be explained. His sisters’ uneasiness had been equally excited
with my own; our coincidence of
feeling was soon discovered, and,
alike sensible that no time was to
be lost in detaching their brother,
we shortly resolved on joining him
directly in London. We accordingly went—and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out
to my friend the certain evils of
such a choice. I described, and enforced them earnestly. But, however this remonstrance might have
staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it
would ultimately have prevented
the marriage, had it not been seconded by the assurance that I hesitated not in giving, of your sister’s indifference. He had before
believed her to return his affection
with sincere, if not with equal regard. But Bingley has great nat-
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ural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgement than on
his own. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself,
was no very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into
Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely
the work of a moment. I cannot
blame myself for having done thus
much. There is but one part of
my conduct in the whole affair on
which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is that I condescended
to adopt the measures of art so far
as to conceal from him your sister’s
being in town. I knew it myself,
as it was known to Miss Bingley;
but her brother is even yet ignorant
of it. That they might have met
without ill consequence is perhaps
probable; but his regard did not appear to me enough extinguished for
him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this concealment, this
disguise was beneath me; it is done,
however, and it was done for the
best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology to
offer. If I have wounded your sister’s feelings, it was unknowingly
done and though the motives which
governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not
yet learnt to condemn them.
Chapter 35
“With respect to that other,
more weighty accusation, of having
injured Mr. Wickham, I can only
refute it by laying before you the
whole of his connection with my
family. Of what he has particularly accused me I am ignorant; but
of the truth of what I shall relate,
I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity.
“Mr. Wickham is the son of a
very respectable man, who had for
many years the management of all
the Pemberley estates, and whose
good conduct in the discharge of
his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service to him; and
on George Wickham, who was his
godson, his kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father
supported him at school, and afterwards at Cambridge—most important assistance, as his own father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have
been unable to give him a gentleman’s education. My father was
not only fond of this young man’s
society, whose manner were always
engaging; he had also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the
church would be his profession, intended to provide for him in it.
As for myself, it is many, many
years since I first began to think
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of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities—the
want of principle, which he was
careful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not
escape the observation of a young
man of nearly the same age with
himself, and who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not
have. Here again shall give you
pain—to what degree you only can
tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has
created, a suspicion of their nature
shall not prevent me from unfolding his real character—it adds even
another motive.
“My excellent father died about
five years ago; and his attachment
to Mr. Wickham was to the last so
steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it to me, to promote his advancement in the best
manner that his profession might
allow—and if he took orders, desired that a valuable family living
might be his as soon as it became
vacant. There was also a legacy
of one thousand pounds. His own
father did not long survive mine,
and within half a year from these
events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against taking orders, he
Chapter 35
hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some
more immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by
which he could not be benefited. He
had some intention, he added, of
studying law, and I must be aware
that the interest of one thousand
pounds would be a very insufficient
support therein. I rather wished,
than believed him to be sincere;
but, at any rate, was perfectly
ready to accede to his proposal. I
knew that Mr. Wickham ought not
to be a clergyman; the business
was therefore soon settled—he resigned all claim to assistance in
the church, were it possible that
he could ever be in a situation to
receive it, and accepted in return
three thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his
society in town. In town I believe
he chiefly lived, but his studying
the law was a mere pretence, and
being now free from all restraint,
his life was a life of idleness and
dissipation. For about three years
I heard little of him; but on the decease of the incumbent of the living
which had been designed for him,
he applied to me again by letter
for the presentation. His circum-
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stances, he assured me, and I had
no difficulty in believing it, were
exceedingly bad. He had found the
law a most unprofitable study, and
was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would present
him to the living in question—-of
which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was well assured
that I had no other person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered father’s intentions. You will hardly blame me
for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition to it. His resentment was
in proportion to the distress of his
circumstances—and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to
others as in his reproaches to myself. After this period every appearance of acquaintance was dropped.
How he lived I know not. But
last summer he was again most
painfully obtruded on my notice.
“I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself, and which no obligation less than the present should
induce me to unfold to any human being.
Having said thus
much, I feel no doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than
ten years my junior, was left to
the guardianship of my mother’s
Chapter 35
nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and
myself. About a year ago, she was
taken from school, and an establishment formed for her in London;
and last summer she went with
the lady who presided over it, to
Ramsgate; and thither also went
Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there proved to have been
a prior acquaintance between him
and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by her connivance and
aid, he so far recommended himself
to Georgiana, whose affectionate
heart retained a strong impression
of his kindness to her as a child,
that she was persuaded to believe
herself in love, and to consent to
an elopement. She was then but
fifteen, which must be her excuse;
and after stating her imprudence, I
am happy to add, that I owed the
knowledge of it to herself. I joined
them unexpectedly a day or two before the intended elopement, and
then Georgiana, unable to support
the idea of grieving and offending
a brother whom she almost looked
up to as a father, acknowledged the
whole to me. You may imagine
what I felt and how I acted. Regard
for my sister’s credit and feelings
prevented any public exposure; but
I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left
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the place immediately, and Mrs.
Younge was of course removed from
her charge. Mr. Wickham’s chief
object was unquestionably my sister’s fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging
himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have
been complete indeed.
“This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we
have been concerned together; and
if you do not absolutely reject it as
false, you will, I hope, acquit me
henceforth of cruelty towards Mr.
Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood
he had imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered
at. Ignorant as you previously were
of everything concerning either, detection could not be in your power,
and suspicion certainly not in your
inclination.
“You may possibly wonder why
all this was not told you last night;
but I was not then master enough
of myself to know what could or
ought to be revealed.
For the
truth of everything here related, I
can appeal more particularly to the
testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam,
who, from our near relationship
and constant intimacy, and, still
Chapter 35
more, as one of the executors of my
father’s will, has been unavoidably
acquainted with every particular of
these transactions. If your abhorrence of me should make my assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there
may be the possibility of consulting
him, I shall endeavour to find some
opportunity of putting this letter
in your hands in the course of the
morning. I will only add, God bless
you.”
“F ITZWILLIAM D ARCY”
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Chapter 36
If Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to contain a renewal of
his offers, she had formed no expectation at
all of its contents. But such as they were, it
may well be supposed how eagerly she went
through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited. Her feelings as she read
were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did she first understand that he believed
any apology to be in his power; and steadfastly was she persuaded, that he could have
no explanation to give, which a just sense
of shame would not conceal. With a strong
prejudice against everything he might say,
she began his account of what had happened
at Netherfield. She read with an eagerness
which hardly left her power of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing what
the next sentence might bring, was incapable
of attending to the sense of the one before her
eyes. His belief of her sister’s insensibility she
instantly resolved to be false; and his account
of the real, the worst objections to the match,
made her too angry to have any wish of doing
him justice. He expressed no regret for what
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he had done which satisfied her; his style was
not penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and
insolence.
But when this subject was succeeded by
his account of Mr. Wickham—when she read
with somewhat clearer attention a relation
of events which, if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which
bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself—her feelings were yet more
acutely painful and more difficult of definition. Astonishment, apprehension, and even
horror, oppressed her. She wished to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, “This
must be false! This cannot be! This must be
the grossest falsehood!”—and when she had
gone through the whole letter, though scarcely
knowing anything of the last page or two,
put it hastily away, protesting that she would
not regard it, that she would never look in it
again.
In this perturbed state of mind, with
thoughts that could rest on nothing, she
walked on; but it would not do; in half a
minute the letter was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she again
began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and commanded herself so
far as to examine the meaning of every sentence. The account of his connection with the
Pemberley family was exactly what he had related himself; and the kindness of the late
Mr. Darcy, though she had not before known
its extent, agreed equally well with his own
words. So far each recital confirmed the other;
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but when she came to the will, the difference
was great. What Wickham had said of the living was fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very words, it was impossible not
to feel that there was gross duplicity on one
side or the other; and, for a few moments, she
flattered herself that her wishes did not err.
But when she read and re-read with the closest attention, the particulars immediately following of Wickham’s resigning all pretensions
to the living, of his receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three thousand pounds, again
was she forced to hesitate. She put down the
letter, weighed every circumstance with what
she meant to be impartiality—deliberated on
the probability of each statement—but with
little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read on; but every line proved
more clearly that the affair, which she had believed it impossible that any contrivance could
so represent as to render Mr. Darcy’s conduct
in it less than infamous, was capable of a
turn which must make him entirely blameless
throughout the whole.
The extravagance and general profligacy
which he scrupled not to lay at Mr. Wickham’s
charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more so,
as she could bring no proof of its injustice. She
had never heard of him before his entrance
into the ——shire Militia, in which he had
engaged at the persuasion of the young man
who, on meeting him accidentally in town,
had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of
his former way of life nothing had been known
in Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As
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to his real character, had information been in
her power, she had never felt a wish of inquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner had
established him at once in the possession of
every virtue. She tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait
of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue
him from the attacks of Mr. Darcy; or at least,
by the predominance of virtue, atone for those
casual errors under which she would endeavour to class what Mr. Darcy had described as
the idleness and vice of many years’ continuance. But no such recollection befriended her.
She could see him instantly before her, in every charm of air and address; but she could
remember no more substantial good than the
general approbation of the neighbourhood,
and the regard which his social powers had
gained him in the mess. After pausing on this
point a considerable while, she once more continued to read. But, alas! the story which followed, of his designs on Miss Darcy, received
some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel Fitzwilliam and herself only
the morning before; and at last she was referred for the truth of every particular to
Colonel Fitzwilliam himself—from whom she
had previously received the information of his
near concern in all his cousin’s affairs, and
whose character she had no reason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on
applying to him, but the idea was checked by
the awkwardness of the application, and at
length wholly banished by the conviction that
Mr. Darcy would never have hazarded such a
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proposal, if he had not been well assured of
his cousin’s corroboration.
She perfectly remembered everything that
had passed in conversation between Wickham and herself, in their first evening at Mr.
Phillips’s. Many of his expressions were still
fresh in her memory. She was now struck with
the impropriety of such communications to a
stranger, and wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with his conduct. She
remembered that he had boasted of having
no fear of seeing Mr. Darcy—that Mr. Darcy
might leave the country, but that he should
stand his ground; yet he had avoided the
Netherfield ball the very next week. She remembered also that, till the Netherfield family had quitted the country, he had told his
story to no one but herself; but that after their
removal it had been everywhere discussed;
that he had then no reserves, no scruples in
sinking Mr. Darcy’s character, though he had
assured her that respect for the father would
always prevent his exposing the son.
How differently did everything now appear
in which he was concerned! His attentions
to Miss King were now the consequence of
views solely and hatefully mercenary; and the
mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer the
moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness
to grasp at anything. His behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive;
he had either been deceived with regard to
her fortune, or had been gratifying his van-
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ity by encouraging the preference which she
believed she had most incautiously shown.
Every lingering struggle in his favour grew
fainter and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not but allow Mr.
Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long
ago asserted his blamelessness in the affair;
that proud and repulsive as were his manners, she had never, in the whole course of
their acquaintance—an acquaintance which
had latterly brought them much together,
and given her a sort of intimacy with his
ways—seen anything that betrayed him to be
unprincipled or unjust—anything that spoke
him of irreligious or immoral habits; that
among his own connections he was esteemed
and valued—that even Wickham had allowed
him merit as a brother, and that she had often
heard him speak so affectionately of his sister
as to prove him capable of some amiable feeling; that had his actions been what Mr. Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of
everything right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and that friendship between a person capable of it, and such an amiable man as Mr. Bingley, was incomprehensible.
She grew absolutely ashamed of herself.
Of neither Darcy nor Wickham could she
think without feeling she had been blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd.
“How despicably I have acted!” she cried;
“I, who have prided myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have often disdained the generous
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candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity
in useless or blameable mistrust! How humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how just a
humiliation! Had I been in love, I could not
have been more wretchedly blind! But vanity,
not love, has been my folly. Pleased with the
preference of one, and offended by the neglect
of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and
ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were concerned. Till this moment I never
knew myself.”
From herself to Jane—from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line which soon
brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy’s
explanation there had appeared very insufficient, and she read it again. Widely different
was the effect of a second perusal. How could
she deny that credit to his assertions in one
instance, which she had been obliged to give
in the other? He declared himself to be totally
unsuspicious of her sister’s attachment; and
she could not help remembering what Charlotte’s opinion had always been. Neither could
she deny the justice of his description of Jane.
She felt that Jane’s feelings, though fervent,
were little displayed, and that there was a
constant complacency in her air and manner
not often united with great sensibility.
When she came to that part of the letter
in which her family were mentioned in terms
of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her
sense of shame was severe. The justice of
the charge struck her too forcibly for denial,
and the circumstances to which he particu-
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larly alluded as having passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first disapprobation, could not have made a stronger
impression on his mind than on hers.
The compliment to herself and her sister
was not unfelt. It soothed, but it could not console her for the contempt which had thus been
self-attracted by the rest of her family; and
as she considered that Jane’s disappointment
had in fact been the work of her nearest relations, and reflected how materially the credit
of both must be hurt by such impropriety of
conduct, she felt depressed beyond anything
she had ever known before.
After wandering along the lane for two
hours, giving way to every variety of
thought—re-considering events, determining
probabilities, and reconciling herself, as well
as she could, to a change so sudden and so important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long
absence, made her at length return home; and
she entered the house with the wish of appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of
repressing such reflections as must make her
unfit for conversation.
She was immediately told that the two
gentlemen from Rosings had each called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few
minutes, to take leave—but that Colonel
Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at
least an hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her till she could
be found. Elizabeth could but just affect concern in missing him; she really rejoiced at it.
Colonel Fitzwilliam was no longer an object;
Chapter 36
she could think only of her letter.
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Chapter 37
The two gentlemen left Rosings the next
morning, and Mr. Collins having been in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting
obeisance, was able to bring home the pleasing intelligence, of their appearing in very
good health, and in as tolerable spirits as
could be expected, after the melancholy scene
so lately gone through at Rosings. To Rosings
he then hastened, to console Lady Catherine
and her daughter; and on his return brought
back, with great satisfaction, a message from
her ladyship, importing that she felt herself
so dull as to make her very desirous of having
them all to dine with her.
Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine
without recollecting that, had she chosen it,
she might by this time have been presented to
her as her future niece; nor could she think,
without a smile, of what her ladyship’s indignation would have been. “What would she
have said? how would she have behaved?”
were questions with which she amused herself.
Their first subject was the diminution of
the Rosings party. “I assure you, I feel it ex-
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ceedingly,” said Lady Catherine; “I believe no
one feels the loss of friends so much as I do.
But I am particularly attached to these young
men, and know them to be so much attached
to me! They were excessively sorry to go! But
so they always are. The dear Colonel rallied
his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Darcy
seemed to feel it most acutely, more, I think,
than last year. His attachment to Rosings certainly increases.”
Mr. Collins had a compliment, and an allusion to throw in here, which were kindly
smiled on by the mother and daughter.
Lady Catherine observed, after dinner,
that Miss Bennet seemed out of spirits, and
immediately accounting for it by herself, by
supposing that she did not like to go home
again so soon, she added:
“But if that is the case, you must write to
your mother and beg that you may stay a little
longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your
company, I am sure.”
“I am much obliged to your ladyship for
your kind invitation,” replied Elizabeth, “but
it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in
town next Saturday.”
“Why, at that rate, you will have been here
only six weeks. I expected you to stay two
months. I told Mrs. Collins so before you
came. There can be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly spare
you for another fortnight.”
“But my father cannot. He wrote last week
to hurry my return.”
“Oh! your father of course may spare you,
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if your mother can. Daughters are never of
so much consequence to a father. And if you
will stay another month complete, it will be
in my power to take one of you as far as London, for I am going there early in June, for
a week; and as Dawson does not object to the
barouche-box, there will be very good room for
one of you—and indeed, if the weather should
happen to be cool, I should not object to taking
you both, as you are neither of you large.”
“You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by our original plan.”
Lady Catherine seemed resigned. “Mrs.
Collins, you must send a servant with them.
You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea of two young women travelling post by themselves. It is highly improper.
You must contrive to send somebody. I have
the greatest dislike in the world to that sort of
thing. Young women should always be properly guarded and attended, according to their
situation in life. When my niece Georgiana
went to Ramsgate last summer, I made a point
of her having two men-servants go with her.
Miss Darcy, the daughter of Mr. Darcy, of Pemberley, and Lady Anne, could not have appeared with propriety in a different manner.
I am excessively attentive to all those things.
You must send John with the young ladies,
Mrs. Collins. I am glad it occurred to me to
mention it; for it would really be discreditable
to you to let them go alone.”
“My uncle is to send a servant for us.”
“Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant,
does he? I am very glad you have somebody
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who thinks of these things. Where shall you
change horses? Oh! Bromley, of course. If
you mention my name at the Bell, you will be
attended to.”
Lady Catherine had many other questions
to ask respecting their journey, and as she
did not answer them all herself, attention
was necessary, which Elizabeth believed to be
lucky for her; or, with a mind so occupied,
she might have forgotten where she was. Reflection must be reserved for solitary hours;
whenever she was alone, she gave way to it
as the greatest relief; and not a day went by
without a solitary walk, in which she might
indulge in all the delight of unpleasant recollections.
Mr. Darcy’s letter she was in a fair way
of soon knowing by heart. She studied every
sentence; and her feelings towards its writer
were at times widely different. When she remembered the style of his address, she was
still full of indignation; but when she considered how unjustly she had condemned and upbraided him, her anger was turned against
herself; and his disappointed feelings became
the object of compassion. His attachment excited gratitude, his general character respect;
but she could not approve him; nor could she
for a moment repent her refusal, or feel the
slightest inclination ever to see him again. In
her own past behaviour, there was a constant
source of vexation and regret; and in the unhappy defects of her family, a subject of yet
heavier chagrin. They were hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at
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305
them, would never exert himself to restrain
the wild giddiness of his youngest daughters;
and her mother, with manners so far from
right herself, was entirely insensible of the
evil. Elizabeth had frequently united with
Jane in an endeavour to check the imprudence of Catherine and Lydia; but while they
were supported by their mother’s indulgence,
what chance could there be of improvement?
Catherine, weak-spirited, irritable, and completely under Lydia’s guidance, had been always affronted by their advice; and Lydia,
self-willed and careless, would scarcely give
them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and
vain. While there was an officer in Meryton,
they would flirt with him; and while Meryton
was within a walk of Longbourn, they would
be going there forever.
Anxiety on Jane’s behalf was another prevailing concern; and Mr. Darcy’s explanation,
by restoring Bingley to all her former good
opinion, heightened the sense of what Jane
had lost. His affection was proved to have
been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all
blame, unless any could attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his friend. How
grievous then was the thought that, of a situation so desirable in every respect, so replete
with advantage, so promising for happiness,
Jane had been deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own family!
When to these recollections was added the
developement of Wickham’s character, it may
be easily believed that the happy spirits which
had seldom been depressed before, were now
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so much affected as to make it almost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful.
Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last week of her stay as they
had been at first. The very last evening was
spent there; and her ladyship again inquired
minutely into the particulars of their journey,
gave them directions as to the best method of
packing, and was so urgent on the necessity
of placing gowns in the only right way, that
Maria thought herself obliged, on her return,
to undo all the work of the morning, and pack
her trunk afresh.
When they parted, Lady Catherine, with
great condescension, wished them a good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford
again next year; and Miss de Bourgh exerted
herself so far as to curtsey and hold out her
hand to both.
Chapter 38
On Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr.
Collins met for breakfast a few minutes before
the others appeared; and he took the opportunity of paying the parting civilities which he
deemed indispensably necessary.
“I know not, Miss Elizabeth,” said he,
“whether Mrs. Collins has yet expressed her
sense of your kindness in coming to us; but I
am very certain you will not leave the house
without receiving her thanks for it. The favor
of your company has been much felt, I assure
you. We know how little there is to tempt anyone to our humble abode. Our plain manner
of living, our small rooms and few domestics,
and the little we see of the world, must make
Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady like
yourself; but I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension, and that we have
done everything in our power to prevent your
spending your time unpleasantly.”
Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and
assurances of happiness. She had spent six
weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure
of being with Charlotte, and the kind attentions she had received, must make her feel the
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obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified, and with a
more smiling solemnity replied:
“It gives me great pleasure to hear that you
have passed your time not disagreeably. We
have certainly done our best; and most fortunately having it in our power to introduce you
to very superior society, and, from our connection with Rosings, the frequent means of varying the humble home scene, I think we may
flatter ourselves that your Hunsford visit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situation
with regard to Lady Catherine’s family is indeed the sort of extraordinary advantage and
blessing which few can boast. You see on what
a footing we are. You see how continually we
are engaged there. In truth I must acknowledge that, with all the disadvantages of this
humble parsonage, I should not think anyone
abiding in it an object of compassion, while
they are sharers of our intimacy at Rosings.”
Words were insufficient for the elevation of
his feelings; and he was obliged to walk about
the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility and truth in a few short sentences.
“You may, in fact, carry a very favourable
report of us into Hertfordshire, my dear
cousin. I flatter myself at least that you
will be able to do so. Lady Catherine’s great
attentions to Mrs. Collins you have been a
daily witness of; and altogether I trust it does
not appear that your friend has drawn an
unfortunate—but on this point it will be as
well to be silent. Only let me assure you, my
dear Miss Elizabeth, that I can from my heart
most cordially wish you equal felicity in mar-
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309
riage. My dear Charlotte and I have but one
mind and one way of thinking. There is in
everything a most remarkable resemblance of
character and ideas between us. We seem to
have been designed for each other.”
Elizabeth could safely say that it was a
great happiness where that was the case, and
with equal sincerity could add, that she firmly
believed and rejoiced in his domestic comforts.
She was not sorry, however, to have the recital
of them interrupted by the lady from whom
they sprang. Poor Charlotte! it was melancholy to leave her to such society! But she had
chosen it with her eyes open; and though evidently regretting that her visitors were to go,
she did not seem to ask for compassion. Her
home and her housekeeping, her parish and
her poultry, and all their dependent concerns,
had not yet lost their charms.
At length the chaise arrived, the trunks
were fastened on, the parcels placed within,
and it was pronounced to be ready. After an
affectionate parting between the friends, Elizabeth was attended to the carriage by Mr.
Collins, and as they walked down the garden he was commissioning her with his best
respects to all her family, not forgetting his
thanks for the kindness he had received at
Longbourn in the winter, and his compliments
to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown.
He then handed her in, Maria followed, and
the door was on the point of being closed,
when he suddenly reminded them, with some
consternation, that they had hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies at Ros-
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ings.
“But,” he added, “you will of course wish to
have your humble respects delivered to them,
with your grateful thanks for their kindness
to you while you have been here.”
Elizabeth made no objection; the door was
then allowed to be shut, and the carriage
drove off.
“Good gracious!” cried Maria, after a few
minutes’ silence, “it seems but a day or two
since we first came! and yet how many things
have happened!”
“A great many indeed,” said her companion
with a sigh.
“We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there twice! How much I
shall have to tell!”
Elizabeth added privately, “And how much
I shall have to conceal!”
Their journey was performed without
much conversation, or any alarm; and within
four hours of their leaving Hunsford they
reached Mr. Gardiner’s house, where they
were to remain a few days.
Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little
opportunity of studying her spirits, amidst the
various engagements which the kindness of
her aunt had reserved for them. But Jane was
to go home with her, and at Longbourn there
would be leisure enough for observation.
It was not without an effort, meanwhile,
that she could wait even for Longbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy’s proposals. To know that she had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish Jane,
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311
and must, at the same time, so highly gratify
whatever of her own vanity she had not yet
been able to reason away, was such a temptation to openness as nothing could have conquered but the state of indecision in which she
remained as to the extent of what she should
communicate; and her fear, if she once entered
on the subject, of being hurried into repeating
something of Bingley which might only grieve
her sister further.
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Chapter 39
It was the second week in May, in which
the three young ladies set out together from
Gracechurch Street for the town of ——, in
Hertfordshire; and, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet’s carriage was
to meet them, they quickly perceived, in token
of the coachman’s punctuality, both Kitty and
Lydia looking out of a dining-room upstairs.
These two girls had been above an hour in the
place, happily employed in visiting an opposite milliner, watching the sentinel on guard,
and dressing a salad and cucumber.
After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set out with such
cold meat as an inn larder usually affords,
exclaiming, “Is not this nice? Is not this an
agreeable surprise?”
“And we mean to treat you all,” added Lydia, “but you must lend us the money, for we
have just spent ours at the shop out there.”
Then, showing her purchases—“Look here, I
have bought this bonnet. I do not think it is
very pretty; but I thought I might as well buy
it as not. I shall pull it to pieces as soon as
I get home, and see if I can make it up any
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Pride and Prejudice
better.”
And when her sisters abused it as ugly,
she added, with perfect unconcern, “Oh! but
there were two or three much uglier in the
shop; and when I have bought some prettiercoloured satin to trim it with fresh, I think
it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not
much signify what one wears this summer, after the ——shire have left Meryton, and they
are going in a fortnight.”
“Are they indeed!” cried Elizabeth, with
the greatest satisfaction.
“They are going to be encamped near
Brighton; and I do so want papa to take us
all there for the summer! It would be such a
delicious scheme; and I dare say would hardly
cost anything at all. Mamma would like to go
too of all things! Only think what a miserable
summer else we shall have!”
“Yes,” thought Elizabeth, “That would be a
delightful scheme indeed, and completely do
for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton, and
a whole campful of soldiers, to us, who have
been overset already by one poor regiment of
militia, and the monthly balls of Meryton!”
“Now I have got some news for you,” said
Lydia, as they sat down at table. “What
do you think? It is excellent news—capital
news—and about a certain person we all like!”
Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other,
and the waiter was told he need not stay. Lydia laughed, and said:
“Aye, that is just like your formality and
discretion. You thought the waiter must not
hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears
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worse things said than I am going to say. But
he is an ugly fellow! I am glad he is gone. I
never saw such a long chin in my life. Well,
but now for my news; it is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is it not? There is
no danger of Wickham’s marrying Mary King.
There’s for you! She is gone down to her uncle
at Liverpool: gone to stay. Wickham is safe.”
“And Mary King is safe!” added Elizabeth;
“safe from a connection imprudent as to fortune.”
“She is a great fool for going away, if she
liked him.”
“But I hope there is no strong attachment
on either side,” said Jane.
“I am sure there is not on his. I will
answer for it, he never cared three straws
about her—who could about such a nasty little freckled thing?”
Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such coarseness of expression herself, the coarseness of the sentiment
was little other than her own breast had harboured and fancied liberal!
As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones
paid, the carriage was ordered; and after some
contrivance, the whole party, with all their
boxes, work-bags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty’s and Lydia’s purchases, were seated in it.
“How nicely we are all crammed in,” cried
Lydia. “I am glad I bought my bonnet, if it
is only for the fun of having another bandbox! Well, now let us be quite comfortable
and snug, and talk and laugh all the way
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home. And in the first place, let us hear what
has happened to you all since you went away.
Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you
had any flirting? I was in great hopes that
one of you would have got a husband before
you came back. Jane will be quite an old
maid soon, I declare. She is almost three-andtwenty! Lord, how ashamed I should be of not
being married before three-and-twenty! My
aunt Phillips wants you so to get husbands,
you can’t think. She says Lizzy had better
have taken Mr. Collins; but I do not think
there would have been any fun in it. Lord!
how I should like to be married before any of
you; and then I would chaperon you about to
all the balls. Dear me! we had such a good
piece of fun the other day at Colonel Forster’s.
Kitty and me were to spend the day there, and
Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance
in the evening; (by the bye, Mrs. Forster and
me are such friends!) and so she asked the
two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill,
and so Pen was forced to come by herself; and
then, what do you think we did? We dressed
up Chamberlayne in woman’s clothes on purpose to pass for a lady, only think what fun!
Not a soul knew of it, but Colonel and Mrs.
Forster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt,
for we were forced to borrow one of her gowns;
and you cannot imagine how well he looked!
When Denny, and Wickham, and Pratt, and
two or three more of the men came in, they
did not know him in the least. Lord! how I
laughed! and so did Mrs. Forster. I thought
I should have died. And that made the men
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suspect something, and then they soon found
out what was the matter.”
With such kinds of histories of their parties
and good jokes, did Lydia, assisted by Kitty’s
hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her
companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she could, but
there was no escaping the frequent mention
of Wickham’s name.
Their reception at home was most kind.
Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet say voluntarily to Elizabeth:
“I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.”
Their party in the dining-room was large,
for almost all the Lucases came to meet Maria
and hear the news; and various were the subjects that occupied them: Lady Lucas was inquiring of Maria, after the welfare and poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet was
doubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of the present fashions from Jane, who
sat some way below her, and, on the other, retailing them all to the younger Lucases; and
Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other
person’s, was enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to anybody who would
hear her.
“Oh! Mary,” said she, “I wish you had gone
with us, for we had such fun! As we went
along, Kitty and I drew up the blinds, and pretended there was nobody in the coach; and I
should have gone so all the way, if Kitty had
not been sick; and when we got to the George,
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I do think we behaved very handsomely, for
we treated the other three with the nicest cold
luncheon in the world, and if you would have
gone, we would have treated you too. And
then when we came away it was such fun!
I thought we never should have got into the
coach. I was ready to die of laughter. And then
we were so merry all the way home! we talked
and laughed so loud, that anybody might have
heard us ten miles off!”
To this Mary very gravely replied, “Far be
it from me, my dear sister, to depreciate such
pleasures! They would doubtless be congenial
with the generality of female minds. But I
confess they would have no charms for me—
I should infinitely prefer a book.”
But of this answer Lydia heard not a word.
She seldom listened to anybody for more than
half a minute, and never attended to Mary at
all.
In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with
the rest of the girls to walk to Meryton, and
to see how everybody went on; but Elizabeth
steadily opposed the scheme. It should not
be said that the Miss Bennets could not be at
home half a day before they were in pursuit of
the officers. There was another reason too for
her opposition. She dreaded seeing Mr. Wickham again, and was resolved to avoid it as
long as possible. The comfort to her of the regiment’s approaching removal was indeed beyond expression. In a fortnight they were to
go—and once gone, she hoped there could be
nothing more to plague her on his account.
She had not been many hours at home be-
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fore she found that the Brighton scheme, of
which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn,
was under frequent discussion between her
parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her father had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were at the same time so
vague and equivocal, that her mother, though
often disheartened, had never yet despaired of
succeeding at last.
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Chapter 40
Elizabeth’s impatience to acquaint Jane with
what had happened could no longer be overcome; and at length, resolving to suppress every particular in which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be surprised, she
related to her the next morning the chief of
the scene between Mr. Darcy and herself.
Miss Bennet’s astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly partiality which
made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly natural; and all surprise was shortly
lost in other feelings. She was sorry that Mr.
Darcy should have delivered his sentiments in
a manner so little suited to recommend them;
but still more was she grieved for the unhappiness which her sister’s refusal must have
given him.
“His being so sure of succeeding was
wrong,” said she, “and certainly ought not
to have appeared; but consider how much it
must increase his disappointment!”
“Indeed,” replied Elizabeth, “I am heartily
sorry for him; but he has other feelings, which
will probably soon drive away his regard for
me. You do not blame me, however, for refus-
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ing him?”
“Blame you! Oh, no.”
“But you blame me for having spoken so
warmly of Wickham?”
“No—I do not know that you were wrong
in saying what you did.”
“But you will know it, when I tell you what
happened the very next day.”
She then spoke of the letter, repeating the
whole of its contents as far as they concerned
George Wickham. What a stroke was this
for poor Jane! who would willingly have gone
through the world without believing that so
much wickedness existed in the whole race of
mankind, as was here collected in one individual. Nor was Darcy’s vindication, though
grateful to her feelings, capable of consoling
her for such discovery. Most earnestly did she
labour to prove the probability of error, and
seek to clear the one without involving the
other.
“This will not do,” said Elizabeth; “you
never will be able to make both of them good
for anything. Take your choice, but you must
be satisfied with only one. There is but such a
quantity of merit between them; just enough
to make one good sort of man; and of late it
has been shifting about pretty much. For my
part, I am inclined to believe it all Darcy’s; but
you shall do as you choose.”
It was some time, however, before a smile
could be extorted from Jane.
“I do not know when I have been more
shocked,” said she. “Wickham so very bad!
It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy!
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Dear Lizzy, only consider what he must have
suffered. Such a disappointment! and with
the knowledge of your ill opinion, too! and
having to relate such a thing of his sister! It
is really too distressing. I am sure you must
feel it so.”
“Oh! no, my regret and compassion are all
done away by seeing you so full of both. I know
you will do him such ample justice, that I am
growing every moment more unconcerned and
indifferent. Your profusion makes me saving;
and if you lament over him much longer, my
heart will be as light as a feather.”
“Poor Wickham! there is such an expression of goodness in his countenance! such an
openness and gentleness in his manner!”
“There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those two young
men. One has got all the goodness, and the
other all the appearance of it.”
“I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in
the appearance of it as you used to do.”
“And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever
in taking so decided a dislike to him, without
any reason. It is such a spur to one’s genius,
such an opening for wit, to have a dislike of
that kind. One may be continually abusive
without saying anything just; but one cannot
always be laughing at a man without now and
then stumbling on something witty.”
“Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am
sure you could not treat the matter as you do
now.”
“Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable
enough, I may say unhappy. And with no one
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to speak to about what I felt, no Jane to comfort me and say that I had not been so very
weak and vain and nonsensical as I knew I
had! Oh! how I wanted you!”
“How unfortunate that you should have
used such very strong expressions in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they do
appear wholly undeserved.”
“Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a most natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There is one point on which I want your
advice. I want to be told whether I ought, or
ought not, to make our acquaintances in general understand Wickham’s character.”
Miss Bennet paused a little, and then
replied, “Surely there can be no occasion for
exposing him so dreadfully. What is your opinion?”
“That it ought not to be attempted. Mr.
Darcy has not authorised me to make his communication public. On the contrary, every particular relative to his sister was meant to be
kept as much as possible to myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of
his conduct, who will believe me? The general
prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so violent, that
it would be the death of half the good people
in Meryton to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal to it. Wickham will
soon be gone; and therefore it will not signify
to anyone here what he really is. Some time
hence it will be all found out, and then we may
laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At present I will say nothing about it.”
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“You are quite right. To have his errors
made public might ruin him for ever. He is
now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and
anxious to re-establish a character. We must
not make him desperate.”
The tumult of Elizabeth’s mind was allayed by this conversation. She had got rid of
two of the secrets which had weighed on her
for a fortnight, and was certain of a willing
listener in Jane, whenever she might wish to
talk again of either. But there was still something lurking behind, of which prudence forbade the disclosure. She dared not relate the
other half of Mr. Darcy’s letter, nor explain to
her sister how sincerely she had been valued
by her friend. Here was knowledge in which
no one could partake; and she was sensible
that nothing less than a perfect understanding between the parties could justify her in
throwing off this last encumbrance of mystery.
“And then,” said she, “if that very improbable
event should ever take place, I shall merely be
able to tell what Bingley may tell in a much
more agreeable manner himself. The liberty
of communication cannot be mine till it has
lost all its value!”
She was now, on being settled at home, at
leisure to observe the real state of her sister’s spirits. Jane was not happy. She still
cherished a very tender affection for Bingley.
Having never even fancied herself in love before, her regard had all the warmth of first
attachment, and, from her age and disposition, greater steadiness than most first attachments often boast; and so fervently did
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she value his remembrance, and prefer him
to every other man, that all her good sense,
and all her attention to the feelings of her
friends, were requisite to check the indulgence
of those regrets which must have been injurious to her own health and their tranquillity.
“Well, Lizzy,” said Mrs. Bennet one day,
“what is your opinion now of this sad business of Jane’s? For my part, I am determined
never to speak of it again to anybody. I told
my sister Phillips so the other day. But I cannot find out that Jane saw anything of him in
London. Well, he is a very undeserving young
man—and I do not suppose there’s the least
chance in the world of her ever getting him
now. There is no talk of his coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have inquired
of everybody, too, who is likely to know.”
“I do not believe he will ever live at Netherfield any more.”
“Oh well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody
wants him to come. Though I shall always say
he used my daughter extremely ill; and if I
was her, I would not have put up with it. Well,
my comfort is, I am sure Jane will die of a broken heart; and then he will be sorry for what
he has done.”
But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort
from any such expectation, she made no answer.
“Well, Lizzy,” continued her mother, soon
afterwards, “and so the Collinses live very
comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it
will last. And what sort of table do they keep?
Charlotte is an excellent manager, I dare say.
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327
If she is half as sharp as her mother, she is
saving enough. There is nothing extravagant
in their housekeeping, I dare say.”
“No, nothing at all.”
“A great deal of good management, depend
upon it. Yes, yes. They will take care not to
outrun their income. They will never be distressed for money. Well, much good may it do
them! And so, I suppose, they often talk of
having Longbourn when your father is dead.
They look upon it as quite their own, I dare
say, whenever that happens.”
“It was a subject which they could not mention before me.”
“No; it would have been strange if they
had; but I make no doubt they often talk of
it between themselves. Well, if they can be
easy with an estate that is not lawfully their
own, so much the better. I should be ashamed
of having one that was only entailed on me.”
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Chapter 41
The first week of their return was soon gone.
The second began. It was the last of the regiment’s stay in Meryton, and all the young
ladies in the neighbourhood were drooping
apace. The dejection was almost universal.
The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able
to eat, drink, and sleep, and pursue the usual
course of their employments. Very frequently
were they reproached for this insensibility by
Kitty and Lydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such
hard-heartedness in any of the family.
“Good Heaven! what is to become of us?
What are we to do?” would they often exclaiming the bitterness of woe. “How can you be
smiling so, Lizzy?”
Their affectionate mother shared all their
grief; she remembered what she had herself endured on a similar occasion, five-andtwenty years ago.
“I am sure,” said she, “I cried for two days
together when Colonel Miller’s regiment went
away. I thought I should have broken my
heart.”
“I am sure I shall break mine,” said Lydia.
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Pride and Prejudice
“If one could but go to Brighton!” observed
Mrs. Bennet.
“Oh, yes!—if one could but go to Brighton!
But papa is so disagreeable.”
“A little sea-bathing would set me up forever.”
“And my aunt Phillips is sure it would do
me a great deal of good,” added Kitty.
Such were the kind of lamentations
resounding perpetually through Longbourn
House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them;
but all sense of pleasure was lost in shame.
She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy’s objections; and never had she been so much disposed to pardon his interference in the views
of his friend.
But the gloom of Lydia’s prospect was
shortly cleared away; for she received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the
colonel of the regiment, to accompany her to
Brighton. This invaluable friend was a very
young woman, and very lately married. A
resemblance in good humour and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each
other, and out of their three months’ acquaintance they had been intimate two.
The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her
adoration of Mrs. Forster, the delight of Mrs.
Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are
scarcely to be described. Wholly inattentive
to her sister’s feelings, Lydia flew about the
house in restless ecstasy, calling for everyone’s congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever; whilst the
luckless Kitty continued in the parlour re-
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331
pined at her fate in terms as unreasonable as
her accent was peevish.
“I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not
ask me as well as Lydia,” said she, “Though
I am not her particular friend. I have just as
much right to be asked as she has, and more
too, for I am two years older.”
In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her
reasonable, and Jane to make her resigned.
As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was
so far from exciting in her the same feelings
as in her mother and Lydia, that she considered it as the death warrant of all possibility of common sense for the latter; and detestable as such a step must make her were
it known, she could not help secretly advising
her father not to let her go. She represented
to him all the improprieties of Lydia’s general
behaviour, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of such a woman as
Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being
yet more imprudent with such a companion
at Brighton, where the temptations must be
greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said:
“Lydia will never be easy until she has exposed herself in some public place or other,
and we can never expect her to do it with so
little expense or inconvenience to her family
as under the present circumstances.”
“If you were aware,” said Elizabeth, “of the
very great disadvantage to us all which must
arise from the public notice of Lydia’s unguarded and imprudent manner—nay, which
has already arisen from it, I am sure you
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would judge differently in the affair.”
“Already arisen?” repeated Mr. Bennet.
“What, has she frightened away some of your
lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast
down. Such squeamish youths as cannot bear
to be connected with a little absurdity are not
worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of
pitiful fellows who have been kept aloof by Lydia’s folly.”
“Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such
injuries to resent. It is not of particular, but
of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our importance, our respectability in the
world must be affected by the wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint
which mark Lydia’s character. Excuse me, for
I must speak plainly. If you, my dear father,
will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and of teaching her that her
present pursuits are not to be the business
of her life, she will soon be beyond the reach
of amendment. Her character will be fixed,
and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt that ever made herself or her family ridiculous; a flirt, too, in the worst and
meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond youth and a tolerable person;
and, from the ignorance and emptiness of her
mind, wholly unable to ward off any portion
of that universal contempt which her rage for
admiration will excite. In this danger Kitty
also is comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain, ignorant, idle, and
absolutely uncontrolled! Oh! my dear father,
can you suppose it possible that they will not
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333
be censured and despised wherever they are
known, and that their sisters will not be often
involved in the disgrace?”
Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was
in the subject, and affectionately taking her
hand said in reply:
“Do not make yourself uneasy, my love.
Wherever you and Jane are known you must
be respected and valued; and you will not
appear to less advantage for having a couple of—or I may say, three—very silly sisters.
We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to Brighton. Let her go, then.
Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will
keep her out of any real mischief; and she
is luckily too poor to be an object of prey to
anybody. At Brighton she will be of less importance even as a common flirt than she has
been here. The officers will find women better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore,
that her being there may teach her her own
insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow
many degrees worse, without authorising us
to lock her up for the rest of her life.”
With this answer Elizabeth was forced to
be content; but her own opinion continued the
same, and she left him disappointed and sorry.
It was not in her nature, however, to increase
her vexations by dwelling on them. She was
confident of having performed her duty, and to
fret over unavoidable evils, or augment them
by anxiety, was no part of her disposition.
Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference with her father, their
indignation would hardly have found expres-
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sion in their united volubility. In Lydia’s
imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised every possibility of earthly happiness. She saw,
with the creative eye of fancy, the streets of
that gay bathing-place covered with officers.
She saw herself the object of attention, to tens
and to scores of them at present unknown.
She saw all the glories of the camp—its tents
stretched forth in beauteous uniformity of
lines, crowded with the young and the gay,
and dazzling with scarlet; and, to complete
the view, she saw herself seated beneath a
tent, tenderly flirting with at least six officers
at once.
Had she known her sister sought to tear
her from such prospects and such realities as
these, what would have been her sensations?
They could have been understood only by her
mother, who might have felt nearly the same.
Lydia’s going to Brighton was all that consoled her for her melancholy conviction of her
husband’s never intending to go there himself.
But they were entirely ignorant of what
had passed; and their raptures continued,
with little intermission, to the very day of Lydia’s leaving home.
Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for
the last time. Having been frequently in company with him since her return, agitation was
pretty well over; the agitations of former partiality entirely so. She had even learnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted her, an affectation and a sameness to
disgust and weary. In his present behaviour
to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source
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335
of displeasure, for the inclination he soon testified of renewing those intentions which had
marked the early part of their acquaintance
could only serve, after what had since passed,
to provoke her. She lost all concern for him
in finding herself thus selected as the object
of such idle and frivolous gallantry; and while
she steadily repressed it, could not but feel the
reproof contained in his believing, that however long, and for whatever cause, his attentions had been withdrawn, her vanity would
be gratified, and her preference secured at
any time by their renewal.
On the very last day of the regiment’s remaining at Meryton, he dined, with other
of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little
was Elizabeth disposed to part from him in
good humour, that on his making some inquiry as to the manner in which her time had
passed at Hunsford, she mentioned Colonel
Fitzwilliam’s and Mr. Darcy’s having both
spent three weeks at Rosings, and asked him,
if he was acquainted with the former.
He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed;
but with a moment’s recollection and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen
him often; and, after observing that he was a
very gentlemanlike man, asked her how she
had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his
favour. With an air of indifference he soon afterwards added:
“How long did you say he was at Rosings?”
“Nearly three weeks.”
“And you saw him frequently?”
“Yes, almost every day.”
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Pride and Prejudice
“His manners are very different from his
cousin’s.”
“Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy
improves upon acquaintance.”
“Indeed!” cried Mr. Wickham with a look
which did not escape her. “And pray, may I
ask?—” But checking himself, he added, in a
gayer tone, “Is it in address that he improves?
Has he deigned to add aught of civility to his
ordinary style?—for I dare not hope,” he continued in a lower and more serious tone, “that
he is improved in essentials.”
“Oh, no!” said Elizabeth. “In essentials, I
believe, he is very much what he ever was.”
While she spoke, Wickham looked as if
scarcely knowing whether to rejoice over her
words, or to distrust their meaning. There
was a something in her countenance which
made him listen with an apprehensive and
anxious attention, while she added:
“When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that his mind or his
manners were in a state of improvement, but
that, from knowing him better, his disposition
was better understood.”
Wickham’s alarm now appeared in a
heightened complexion and agitated look; for
a few minutes he was silent, till, shaking off
his embarrassment, he turned to her again,
and said in the gentlest of accents:
“You, who so well know my feeling towards
Mr. Darcy, will readily comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to
assume even the appearance of what is right.
His pride, in that direction, may be of service,
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337
if not to himself, to many others, for it must
only deter him from such foul misconduct as
I have suffered by. I only fear that the sort
of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have
been alluding, is merely adopted on his visits
to his aunt, of whose good opinion and judgement he stands much in awe. His fear of her
has always operated, I know, when they were
together; and a good deal is to be imputed to
his wish of forwarding the match with Miss de
Bourgh, which I am certain he has very much
at heart.”
Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this,
but she answered only by a slight inclination
of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage
her on the old subject of his grievances, and
she was in no humour to indulge him. The
rest of the evening passed with the appearance, on his side, of usual cheerfulness, but
with no further attempt to distinguish Elizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a mutual desire of never
meeting again.
When the party broke up, Lydia returned
with Mrs. Forster to Meryton, from whence
they were to set out early the next morning.
The separation between her and her family
was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the
only one who shed tears; but she did weep
from vexation and envy. Mrs. Bennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her
daughter, and impressive in her injunctions
that she should not miss the opportunity of
enjoying herself as much as possible—advice
which there was every reason to believe would
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Pride and Prejudice
be well attended to; and in the clamorous happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the
more gentle adieus of her sisters were uttered
without being heard.
Chapter 42
Had Elizabeth’s opinion been all drawn from
her own family, she could not have formed
a very pleasing opinion of conjugal felicity
or domestic comfort. Her father, captivated
by youth and beauty, and that appearance of
good humour which youth and beauty generally give, had married a woman whose weak
understanding and illiberal mind had very
early in their marriage put an end to all real
affection for her. Respect, esteem, and confidence had vanished for ever; and all his views
of domestic happiness were overthrown. But
Mr. Bennet was not of a disposition to seek
comfort for the disappointment which his own
imprudence had brought on, in any of those
pleasures which too often console the unfortunate for their folly of their vice. He was
fond of the country and of books; and from
these tastes had arisen his principal enjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise
indebted, than as her ignorance and folly had
contributed to his amusement. This is not the
sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his wife; but where other
powers of entertainment are wanting, the true
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Pride and Prejudice
philosopher will derive benefit from such as
are given.
Elizabeth, however, had never been blind
to the impropriety of her father’s behaviour
as a husband. She had always seen it with
pain; but respecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of herself,
she endeavoured to forget what she could not
overlook, and to banish from her thoughts
that continual breach of conjugal obligation
and decorum which, in exposing his wife to
the contempt of her own children, was so
highly reprehensible. But she had never felt
so strongly as now the disadvantages which
must attend the children of so unsuitable a
marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the
evils arising from so ill-judged a direction of
talents; talents, which, rightly used, might at
least have preserved the respectability of his
daughters, even if incapable of enlarging the
mind of his wife.
When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham’s departure she found little other cause
for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment.
Their parties abroad were less varied than before, and at home she had a mother and sister whose constant repinings at the dullness
of everything around them threw a real gloom
over their domestic circle; and, though Kitty
might in time regain her natural degree of
sense, since the disturbers of her brain were
removed, her other sister, from whose disposition greater evil might be apprehended, was
likely to be hardened in all her folly and assurance by a situation of such double danger
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341
as a watering-place and a camp. Upon the
whole, therefore, she found, what has been
sometimes been found before, that an event
to which she had been looking with impatient desire did not, in taking place, bring
all the satisfaction she had promised herself.
It was consequently necessary to name some
other period for the commencement of actual
felicity—to have some other point on which
her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and
by again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the present, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to
the Lakes was now the object of her happiest thoughts; it was her best consolation for
all the uncomfortable hours which the discontentedness of her mother and Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included Jane in
the scheme, every part of it would have been
perfect.
“But it is fortunate,” thought she, “that I
have something to wish for. Were the whole
arrangement complete, my disappointment
would be certain. But here, by carrying with
me one ceaseless source of regret in my sister’s
absence, I may reasonably hope to have all my
expectations of pleasure realised. A scheme of
which every part promises delight can never
be successful; and general disappointment is
only warded off by the defence of some little
peculiar vexation.”
When Lydia went away she promised to
write very often and very minutely to her
mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected, and always very short.
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Pride and Prejudice
Those to her mother contained little else than
that they were just returned from the library,
where such and such officers had attended
them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as made her quite wild; that
she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which
she would have described more fully, but was
obliged to leave off in a violent hurry, as Mrs.
Forster called her, and they were going off to
the camp; and from her correspondence with
her sister, there was still less to be learnt—for
her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were
much too full of lines under the words to be
made public.
After the first fortnight or three weeks of
her absence, health, good humour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn. Everything wore a happier aspect. The families
who had been in town for the winter came
back again, and summer finery and summer
engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet was restored
to her usual querulous serenity; and, by the
middle of June, Kitty was so much recovered
as to be able to enter Meryton without tears;
an event of such happy promise as to make
Elizabeth hope that by the following Christmas she might be so tolerably reasonable as
not to mention an officer above once a day,
unless, by some cruel and malicious arrangement at the War Office, another regiment
should be quartered in Meryton.
The time fixed for the beginning of their
northern tour was now fast approaching, and
a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once
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343
delayed its commencement and curtailed its
extent. Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by
business from setting out till a fortnight later
in July, and must be in London again within
a month, and as that left too short a period
for them to go so far, and see so much as they
had proposed, or at least to see it with the
leisure and comfort they had built on, they
were obliged to give up the Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour, and, according to
the present plan, were to go no farther northwards than Derbyshire. In that county there
was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of
their three weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it
had a peculiarly strong attraction. The town
where she had formerly passed some years of
her life, and where they were now to spend a
few days, was probably as great an object of
her curiosity as all the celebrated beauties of
Matlock, Chatsworth, Dovedale, or the Peak.
Elizabeth was excessively disappointed;
she had set her heart on seeing the Lakes,
and still thought there might have been
time enough. But it was her business to
be satisfied—and certainly her temper to be
happy; and all was soon right again.
With the mention of Derbyshire there were
many ideas connected. It was impossible for
her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its owner. “But surely,” said she, “I
may enter his county without impunity, and
rob it of a few petrified spars without his perceiving me.”
The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass away before
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her uncle and aunt’s arrival. But they did
pass away, and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, with
their four children, did at length appear at
Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and
eight years old, and two younger boys, were
to be left under the particular care of their
cousin Jane, who was the general favourite,
and whose steady sense and sweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them
in every way—teaching them, playing with
them, and loving them.
The Gardiners stayed only one night at
Longbourn, and set off the next morning with
Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement.
One enjoyment was certain—that
of suitableness of companions; a suitableness which comprehended health and temper
to bear inconveniences—cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure—and affection and intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were disappointments abroad.
It is not the object of this work to give a
description of Derbyshire, nor of any of the
remarkable places through which their route
thither lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, Birmingham, etc. are sufficiently
known. A small part of Derbyshire is all
the present concern. To the little town of
Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner’s former
residence, and where she had lately learned
some acquaintance still remained, they bent
their steps, after having seen all the principal wonders of the country; and within five
miles of Lambton, Elizabeth found from her
aunt that Pemberley was situated. It was not
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in their direct road, nor more than a mile or
two out of it. In talking over their route the
evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed an
inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his willingness, and Elizabeth
was applied to for her approbation.
“My love, should not you like to see a place
of which you have heard so much?” said her
aunt; “a place, too, with which so many of
your acquaintances are connected. Wickham
passed all his youth there, you know.”
Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that
she had no business at Pemberley, and was
obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing
it. She must own that she was tired of seeing
great houses; after going over so many, she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin
curtains.
Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. “If it
were merely a fine house richly furnished,”
said she, “I should not care about it myself;
but the grounds are delightful. They have
some of the finest woods in the country.”
Elizabeth said no more—but her mind
could not acquiesce. The possibility of meeting
Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly
occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed
at the very idea, and thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt than to run
such a risk. But against this there were objections; and she finally resolved that it could
be the last resource, if her private inquiries to
the absence of the family were unfavourably
answered.
Accordingly, when she retired at night, she
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asked the chambermaid whether Pemberley
were not a very fine place? what was the name
of its proprietor? and, with no little alarm,
whether the family were down for the summer? A most welcome negative followed the
last question—and her alarms now being removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal
of curiosity to see the house herself; and when
the subject was revived the next morning, and
she was again applied to, could readily answer, and with a proper air of indifference,
that she had not really any dislike to the
scheme. To Pemberley, therefore, they were
to go.
Chapter 43
Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for
the first appearance of Pemberley Woods with
some perturbation; and when at length they
turned in at the lodge, her spirits were in a
high flutter.
The park was very large, and contained
great variety of ground. They entered it in
one of its lowest points, and drove for some
time through a beautiful wood stretching over
a wide extent.
Elizabeth’s mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for half-a-mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable eminence,
where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated
on the opposite side of a valley, into which the
road with some abruptness wound. It was
a large, handsome stone building, standing
well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge
of high woody hills; and in front, a stream
of some natural importance was swelled into
greater, but without any artificial appearance.
Its banks were neither formal nor falsely
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Pride and Prejudice
adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had
never seen a place for which nature had done
more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They
were all of them warm in their admiration;
and at that moment she felt that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!
They descended the hill, crossed the
bridge, and drove to the door; and, while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her
apprehension of meeting its owner returned.
She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been
mistaken. On applying to see the place, they
were admitted into the hall; and Elizabeth, as
they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure
to wonder at her being where she was.
The housekeeper came; a respectablelooking elderly woman, much less fine, and
more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They followed her into the diningparlour. It was a large, well proportioned
room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went to a window
to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with
wood, which they had descended, receiving
increased abruptness from the distance, was
a beautiful object. Every disposition of the
ground was good; and she looked on the whole
scene, the river, the trees scattered on its
banks and the winding of the valley, as far
as she could trace it, with delight. As they
passed into other rooms these objects were
taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The
rooms were lofty and handsome, and their fur-
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niture suitable to the fortune of its proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his
taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly
fine; with less of splendour, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.
“And of this place,” thought she, “I might
have been mistress! With these rooms I might
now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead
of viewing them as a stranger, I might have
rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed
to them as visitors my uncle and aunt. But
no,”—recollecting herself—“that could never
be; my uncle and aunt would have been lost
to me; I should not have been allowed to invite them.”
This was a lucky recollection—it saved her
from something very like regret.
She longed to inquire of the housekeeper
whether her master was really absent, but
had not the courage for it. At length however,
the question was asked by her uncle; and she
turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds
replied that he was, adding, “But we expect
him to-morrow, with a large party of friends.”
How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own
journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day!
Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached and saw the likeness
of Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst several
other miniatures, over the mantelpiece. Her
aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it.
The housekeeper came forward, and told them
it was a picture of a young gentleman, the son
of her late master’s steward, who had been
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brought up by him at his own expense. “He
is now gone into the army,” she added; “but I
am afraid he has turned out very wild.”
Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a
smile, but Elizabeth could not return it.
“And that,” said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, “is my
master—and very like him. It was drawn at
the same time as the other—about eight years
ago.”
“I have heard much of your master’s fine
person,” said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the
picture; “it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you
can tell us whether it is like or not.”
Mrs. Reynolds respect for Elizabeth
seemed to increase on this intimation of her
knowing her master.
“Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?”
Elizabeth coloured, and said: “A little.”
“And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma’am?”
“Yes, very handsome.”
“I am sure I know none so handsome; but
in the gallery upstairs you will see a finer,
larger picture of him than this. This room was
my late master’s favourite room, and these
miniatures are just as they used to be then.
He was very fond of them.”
This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham’s being among them.
Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn when she was
only eight years old.
“And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her
brother?” said Mrs. Gardiner.
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351
“Oh! yes—the handsomest young lady that
ever was seen; and so accomplished!—She
plays and sings all day long. In the next
room is a new instrument just come down for
her—a present from my master; she comes
here to-morrow with him.”
Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were very
easy and pleasant, encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks;
Mrs. Reynolds, either by pride or attachment,
had evidently great pleasure in talking of her
master and his sister.
“Is your master much at Pemberley in the
course of the year?”
“Not so much as I could wish, sir; but I
dare say he may spend half his time here; and
Miss Darcy is always down for the summer
months.”
“Except,” thought Elizabeth, “when she
goes to Ramsgate.”
“If your master would marry, you might
see more of him.”
“Yes, sir; but I do not know when that will
be. I do not know who is good enough for him.”
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth
could not help saying, “It is very much to his
credit, I am sure, that you should think so.”
“I say no more than the truth, and everybody will say that knows him,” replied the
other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty
far; and she listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, “I have never
known a cross word from him in my life, and I
have known him ever since he was four years
old.”
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Pride and Prejudice
This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her ideas. That he
was not a good-tempered man had been her
firmest opinion. Her keenest attention was
awakened; she longed to hear more, and was
grateful to her uncle for saying:
“There are very few people of whom so
much can be said. You are lucky in having
such a master.”
“Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go
through the world, I could not meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who
are good-natured when children, are goodnatured when they grow up; and he was always the sweetest-tempered, most generoushearted boy in the world.”
Elizabeth almost stared at her. “Can this
be Mr. Darcy?” thought she.
“His father was an excellent man,” said
Mrs. Gardiner.
“Yes, ma’am, that he was indeed; and his
son will be just like him—just as affable to the
poor.”
Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted,
and was impatient for more. Mrs. Reynolds
could interest her on no other point. She related the subjects of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the furniture, in vain, Mr. Gardiner, highly amused
by the kind of family prejudice to which he
attributed her excessive commendation of her
master, soon led again to the subject; and she
dwelt with energy on his many merits as they
proceeded together up the great staircase.
“He is the best landlord, and the best mas-
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353
ter,” said she, “that ever lived; not like the
wild young men nowadays, who think of nothing but themselves. There is not one of his
tenants or servants but will give him a good
name. Some people call him proud; but I am
sure I never saw anything of it. To my fancy,
it is only because he does not rattle away like
other young men.”
“In what an amiable light does this place
him!” thought Elizabeth.
“This fine account of him,” whispered her
aunt as they walked, “is not quite consistent
with his behaviour to our poor friend.”
“Perhaps we might be deceived.”
“That is not very likely; our authority was
too good.”
On reaching the spacious lobby above they
were shown into a very pretty sitting-room,
lately fitted up with greater elegance and
lightness than the apartments below; and
were informed that it was but just done to give
pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the room when last at Pemberley.
“He is certainly a good brother,” said Elizabeth, as she walked towards one of the windows.
Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy’s delight, when she should enter the room. “And
this is always the way with him,” she added.
“Whatever can give his sister any pleasure is
sure to be done in a moment. There is nothing
he would not do for her.”
The picture-gallery, and two or three of the
principal bedrooms, were all that remained
to be shown. In the former were many good
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paintings; but Elizabeth knew nothing of the
art; and from such as had been already visible below, she had willingly turned to look
at some drawings of Miss Darcy’s, in crayons,
whose subjects were usually more interesting,
and also more intelligible.
In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could have little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked in
quest of the only face whose features would be
known to her. At last it arrested her—and she
beheld a striking resemblance to Mr. Darcy,
with such a smile over the face as she remembered to have sometimes seen when he
looked at her. She stood several minutes
before the picture, in earnest contemplation,
and returned to it again before they quitted
the gallery. Mrs. Reynolds informed them that
it had been taken in his father’s lifetime.
There was certainly at this moment, in
Elizabeth’s mind, a more gentle sensation towards the original than she had ever felt at
the height of their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds
was of no trifling nature. What praise is more
valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she
considered how many people’s happiness were
in his guardianship!—how much of pleasure
or pain was it in his power to bestow!—how
much of good or evil must be done by him!
Every idea that had been brought forward by
the housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she stood before the canvas on
which he was represented, and fixed his eyes
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355
upon herself, she thought of his regard with a
deeper sentiment of gratitude than it had ever
raised before; she remembered its warmth,
and softened its impropriety of expression.
When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen, they returned
downstairs, and, taking leave of the housekeeper, were consigned over to the gardener,
who met them at the hall-door.
As they walked across the hall towards the
river, Elizabeth turned back to look again;
her uncle and aunt stopped also, and while
the former was conjecturing as to the date of
the building, the owner of it himself suddenly
came forward from the road, which led behind
it to the stables.
They were within twenty yards of each
other, and so abrupt was his appearance, that
it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their
eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of both
were overspread with the deepest blush. He
absolutely started, and for a moment seemed
immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party, and
spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect
composure, at least of perfect civility.
She had instinctively turned away; but
stopping on his approach, received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible
to be overcome. Had his first appearance, or
his resemblance to the picture they had just
been examining, been insufficient to assure
the other two that they now saw Mr. Darcy,
the gardener’s expression of surprise, on beholding his master, must immediately have
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told it. They stood a little aloof while he was
talking to their niece, who, astonished and
confused, scarcely dared lift her eyes to his
face, and knew not what answer she returned
to his civil inquiries after her family. Amazed
at the alteration of his manner since they last
parted, every sentence that he uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea
of the impropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the few minutes in which
they continued were some of the most uncomfortable in her life. Nor did he seem much
more at ease; when he spoke, his accent had
none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated
his inquiries as to the time of her having left
Longbourn, and of her having stayed in Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as
plainly spoke the distraction of his thoughts.
At length every idea seemed to fail him;
and, after standing a few moments without
saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took leave.
The others then joined her, and expressed
admiration of his figure; but Elizabeth heard
not a word, and wholly engrossed by her own
feelings, followed them in silence. She was
overpowered by shame and vexation. Her
coming there was the most unfortunate, the
most ill-judged thing in the world! How
strange it must appear to him! In what a
disgraceful light might it not strike so vain a
man! It might seem as if she had purposely
thrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did
she come? Or, why did he thus come a day
before he was expected? Had they been only
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357
ten minutes sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his discrimination; for it
was plain that he was that moment arrived––
that moment alighted from his horse or his
carriage. She blushed again and again over
the perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so strikingly altered—what could it
mean? That he should even speak to her was
amazing!—but to speak with such civility, to
inquire after her family! Never in her life had
she seen his manners so little dignified, never
had he spoken with such gentleness as on this
unexpected meeting. What a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when
he put his letter into her hand! She knew not
what to think, or how to account for it.
They had now entered a beautiful walk
by the side of the water, and every step was
bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a
finer reach of the woods to which they were
approaching; but it was some time before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though
she answered mechanically to the repeated
appeals of her uncle and aunt, and seemed to
direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed
out, she distinguished no part of the scene.
Her thoughts were all fixed on that one spot
of Pemberley House, whichever it might be,
where Mr. Darcy then was. She longed to
know what at the moment was passing in his
mind—in what manner he thought of her, and
whether, in defiance of everything, she was
still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil
only because he felt himself at ease; yet there
had been that in his voice which was not like
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ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of
pleasure in seeing her she could not tell, but
he certainly had not seen her with composure.
At length, however, the remarks of her
companions on her absence of mind aroused
her, and she felt the necessity of appearing
more like herself.
They entered the woods, and bidding adieu
to the river for a while, ascended some of
the higher grounds; when, in spots where the
opening of the trees gave the eye power to
wander, were many charming views of the valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of
woods overspreading many, and occasionally
part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner expressed
a wish of going round the whole park, but
feared it might be beyond a walk. With a
triumphant smile they were told that it was
ten miles round. It settled the matter; and
they pursued the accustomed circuit; which
brought them again, after some time, in a
descent among hanging woods, to the edge
of the water, and one of its narrowest parts.
They crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of the scene; it was a
spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and the valley, here contracted into a
glen, allowed room only for the stream, and
a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood
which bordered it. Elizabeth longed to explore
its windings; but when they had crossed the
bridge, and perceived their distance from the
house, Mrs. Gardiner, who was not a great
walker, could go no farther, and thought only
of returning to the carriage as quickly as pos-
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359
sible. Her niece was, therefore, obliged to
submit, and they took their way towards the
house on the opposite side of the river, in the
nearest direction; but their progress was slow,
for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and
was so much engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some trout in the water,
and talking to the man about them, that he
advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in
this slow manner, they were again surprised,
and Elizabeth’s astonishment was quite equal
to what it had been at first, by the sight of
Mr. Darcy approaching them, and at no great
distance. The walk here being here less sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to
see him before they met. Elizabeth, however
astonished, was at least more prepared for an
interview than before, and resolved to appear
and to speak with calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike
into some other path. The idea lasted while a
turning in the walk concealed him from their
view; the turning past, he was immediately
before them. With a glance, she saw that he
had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, she began, as they met,
to admire the beauty of the place; but she
had not got beyond the words “delightful,” and
“charming,” when some unlucky recollections
obtruded, and she fancied that praise of Pemberley from her might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and she said no
more.
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Pride and Prejudice
Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked her if
she would do him the honour of introducing
him to her friends. This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and
she could hardly suppress a smile at his being
now seeking the acquaintance of some of those
very people against whom his pride had revolted in his offer to herself. “What will be his
surprise,” thought she, “when he knows who
they are? He takes them now for people of
fashion.”
The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to
see how he bore it, and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he could
from such disgraceful companions. That he
was surprised by the connection was evident;
he sustained it, however, with fortitude, and
so far from going away, turned his back with
them, and entered into conversation with Mr.
Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased,
could not but triumph. It was consoling that
he should know she had some relations for
whom there was no need to blush. She listened most attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every expression,
every sentence of her uncle, which marked his
intelligence, his taste, or his good manners.
The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr. Darcy invite him, with
the greatest civility, to fish there as often as
he chose while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time to supply him
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with fishing tackle, and pointing out those
parts of the stream where there was usually
most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking
arm-in-arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look
expressive of wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme, and continually was she repeating, “Why is he so altered? From what can it proceed? It cannot be for me—it cannot be for my sake that
his manners are thus softened. My reproofs
at Hunsford could not work such a change as
this. It is impossible that he should still love
me.”
After walking some time in this way, the
two ladies in front, the two gentlemen behind,
on resuming their places, after descending to
the brink of the river for the better inspection
of some curious water-plant, there chanced to
be a little alteration. It originated in Mrs.
Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the
morning, found Elizabeth’s arm inadequate to
her support, and consequently preferred her
husband’s. Mr. Darcy took her place by her
niece, and they walked on together. After a
short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished
him to know that she had been assured of his
absence before she came to the place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival
had been very unexpected—“for your housekeeper,” she added, “informed us that you
would certainly not be here till to-morrow;
and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately ex-
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pected in the country.” He acknowledged the
truth of it all, and said that business with
his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party
with whom he had been travelling. “They will
join me early to-morrow,” he continued, “and
among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you—Mr. Bingley and his sisters.”
Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow.
Her thoughts were instantly driven back to
the time when Mr. Bingley’s name had been
the last mentioned between them; and, if she
might judge by his complexion, his mind was
not very differently engaged.
“There is also one other person in the
party,” he continued after a pause, “who more
particularly wishes to be known to you. Will
you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during
your stay at Lambton?”
The surprise of such an application was
great indeed; it was too great for her to know
in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy
might have of being acquainted with her must
be the work of her brother, and, without looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made
him think really ill of her.
They now walked on in silence, each of
them deep in thought. Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was
flattered and pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her was a compliment of the
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highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had reached the carriage,
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of
a mile behind.
He then asked her to walk into the
house—but she declared herself not tired, and
they stood together on the lawn. At such
a time much might have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk,
but there seemed to be an embargo on every
subject. At last she recollected that she had
been travelling, and they talked of Matlock
and Dove Dale with great perseverance. Yet
time and her aunt moved slowly—and her patience and her ideas were nearly worn our before the tete-a-tete was over. On Mr. and Mrs.
Gardiner’s coming up they were all pressed to
go into the house and take some refreshment;
but this was declined, and they parted on
each side with utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy
handed the ladies into the carriage; and when
it drove off, Elizabeth saw him walking slowly
towards the house.
The observations of her uncle and aunt
now began; and each of them pronounced him
to be infinitely superior to anything they had
expected. “He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and unassuming,” said her uncle.
“There is something a little stately in him,
to be sure,” replied her aunt, “but it is confined
to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now
say with the housekeeper, that though some
people may call him proud, I have seen nothing of it.”
“I was never more surprised than by his
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behaviour to us. It was more than civil; it
was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such attention. His acquaintance with
Elizabeth was very trifling.”
“To be sure, Lizzy,” said her aunt, “he is not
so handsome as Wickham; or, rather, he has
not Wickham’s countenance, for his features
are perfectly good. But how came you to tell
me that he was so disagreeable?”
Elizabeth excused herself as well as she
could; said that she had liked him better when
they had met in Kent than before, and that
she had never seen him so pleasant as this
morning.
“But perhaps he may be a little whimsical
in his civilities,” replied her uncle. “Your great
men often are; and therefore I shall not take
him at his word, as he might change his mind
another day, and warn me off his grounds.”
Elizabeth felt that they had entirely misunderstood his character, but said nothing.
“From what we have seen of him,” continued Mrs. Gardiner, “I really should not have
thought that he could have behaved in so cruel
a way by anybody as he has done by poor
Wickham. He has not an ill-natured look.
On the contrary, there is something pleasing
about his mouth when he speaks. And there is
something of dignity in his countenance that
would not give one an unfavourable idea of
his heart. But, to be sure, the good lady who
showed us his house did give him a most flaming character! I could hardly help laughing
aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal master, I
suppose, and that in the eye of a servant com-
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prehends every virtue.”
Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say
something in vindication of his behaviour to
Wickham; and therefore gave them to understand, in as guarded a manner as she could,
that by what she had heard from his relations
in Kent, his actions were capable of a very
different construction; and that his character
was by no means so faulty, nor Wickham’s so
amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In confirmation of this, she related
the particulars of all the pecuniary transactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming her authority, but stating
it to be such as such as might be relied on.
Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now approaching the
scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave
way to the charm of recollection; and she was
too much engaged in pointing out to her husband all the interesting spots in its environs
to think of anything else. Fatigued as she
had been by the morning’s walk they had no
sooner dined than she set off again in quest
of her former acquaintance, and the evening
was spent in the satisfactions of a intercourse
renewed after many years’ discontinuance.
The occurrences of the day were too full
of interest to leave Elizabeth much attention
for any of these new friends; and she could do
nothing but think, and think with wonder, of
Mr. Darcy’s civility, and, above all, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister.
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Chapter 44
Elizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would
bring his sister to visit her the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was consequently resolved not to be out of sight of the
inn the whole of that morning. But her conclusion was false; for on the very morning after
their arrival at Lambton, these visitors came.
They had been walking about the place with
some of their new friends, and were just returning to the inn to dress themselves for dining with the same family, when the sound of a
carriage drew them to a window, and they saw
a gentleman and a lady in a curricle driving
up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognizing the livery, guessed what it meant, and
imparted no small degree of her surprise to
her relations by acquainting them with the
honour which she expected. Her uncle and
aunt were all amazement; and the embarrassment of her manner as she spoke, joined
to the circumstance itself, and many of the
circumstances of the preceding day, opened
to them a new idea on the business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they
felt that there was no other way of account-
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ing for such attentions from such a quarter
than by supposing a partiality for their niece.
While these newly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation of Elizabeth’s feelings was at every moment increasing. She was quite amazed at her own discomposure; but amongst other causes of disquiet,
she dreaded lest the partiality of the brother
should have said too much in her favour; and,
more than commonly anxious to please, she
naturally suspected that every power of pleasing would fail her.
She retreated from the window, fearful of
being seen; and as she walked up and down
the room, endeavouring to compose herself,
saw such looks of inquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as made everything worse.
Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and
this formidable introduction took place. With
astonishment did Elizabeth see that her new
acquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself. Since her being at Lambton,
she had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud; but the observation of a very few
minutes convinced her that she was only exceedingly shy. She found it difficult to obtain
even a word from her beyond a monosyllable.
Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale
than Elizabeth; and, though little more than
sixteen, her figure was formed, and her appearance womanly and graceful. She was less
handsome than her brother; but there was
sense and good humour in her face, and her
manners were perfectly unassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find in her
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as acute and unembarrassed an observer as
ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much relieved
by discerning such different feelings.
They had not long been together before Mr.
Darcy told her that Bingley was also coming
to wait on her; and she had barely time to express her satisfaction, and prepare for such a
visitor, when Bingley’s quick step was heard
on the stairs, and in a moment he entered
the room. All Elizabeth’s anger against him
had been long done away; but had she still
felt any, it could hardly have stood its ground
against the unaffected cordiality with which
he expressed himself on seeing her again. He
inquired in a friendly, though general way, after her family, and looked and spoke with the
same good-humoured ease that he had ever
done.
To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely
a less interesting personage than to herself.
They had long wished to see him. The whole
party before them, indeed, excited a lively attention. The suspicions which had just arisen
of Mr. Darcy and their niece directed their
observation towards each with an earnest
though guarded inquiry; and they soon drew
from those inquiries the full conviction that
one of them at least knew what it was to love.
Of the lady’s sensations they remained a little in doubt; but that the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was evident enough.
Elizabeth, on her side, had much to do.
She wanted to ascertain the feelings of each of
her visitors; she wanted to compose her own,
and to make herself agreeable to all; and in
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the latter object, where she feared most to
fail, she was most sure of success, for those
to whom she endeavoured to give pleasure
were prepossessed in her favour. Bingley was
ready, Georgiana was eager, and Darcy determined, to be pleased.
In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally
flew to her sister; and, oh! how ardently did
she long to know whether any of his were directed in a like manner. Sometimes she could
fancy that he talked less than on former occasions, and once or twice pleased herself with
the notion that, as he looked at her, he was
trying to trace a resemblance. But, though
this might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his behaviour to Miss Darcy, who
had been set up as a rival to Jane. No look
appeared on either side that spoke particular
regard. Nothing occurred between them that
could justify the hopes of his sister. On this
point she was soon satisfied; and two or three
little circumstances occurred ere they parted,
which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted
a recollection of Jane not untinctured by tenderness, and a wish of saying more that might
lead to the mention of her, had he dared. He
observed to her, at a moment when the others
were talking together, and in a tone which had
something of real regret, that it “was a very
long time since he had had the pleasure of seeing her;” and, before she could reply, he added,
“It is above eight months. We have not met
since the 26th of November, when we were all
dancing together at Netherfield.”
Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory
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371
so exact; and he afterwards took occasion to
ask her, when unattended to by any of the
rest, whether all her sisters were at Longbourn. There was not much in the question,
nor in the preceding remark; but there was a
look and a manner which gave them meaning.
It was not often that she could turn her
eyes on Mr. Darcy himself; but, whenever she
did catch a glimpse, she saw an expression
of general complaisance, and in all that he
said she heard an accent so removed from
hauteur or disdain of his companions, as convinced her that the improvement of manners
which she had yesterday witnessed however
temporary its existence might prove, had at
least outlived one day. When she saw him
thus seeking the acquaintance and courting
the good opinion of people with whom any
intercourse a few months ago would have
been a disgrace—when she saw him thus
civil, not only to herself, but to the very relations whom he had openly disdained, and
recollected their last lively scene in Hunsford
Parsonage—the difference, the change was so
great, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that
she could hardly restrain her astonishment
from being visible. Never, even in the company of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his
dignified relations at Rosings, had she seen
him so desirous to please, so free from selfconsequence or unbending reserve, as now,
when no importance could result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the acquaintance of those to whom his attentions
were addressed would draw down the ridicule
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Pride and Prejudice
and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield
as Rosings.
Their visitors stayed with them above halfan-hour; and when they arose to depart, Mr.
Darcy called on his sister to join him in expressing their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs.
Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner at Pemberley, before they left the country. Miss
Darcy, though with a diffidence which marked
her little in the habit of giving invitations,
readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner looked at her
niece, desirous of knowing how she, whom the
invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to
its acceptance, but Elizabeth had turned away
her head. Presuming however, that this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment than any dislike of the proposal,
and seeing in her husband, who was fond of
society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she
ventured to engage for her attendance, and
the day after the next was fixed on.
Bingley expressed great pleasure in the
certainty of seeing Elizabeth again, having
still a great deal to say to her, and many inquiries to make after all their Hertfordshire
friends. Elizabeth, construing all this into a
wish of hearing her speak of her sister, was
pleased, and on this account, as well as some
others, found herself, when their visitors left
them, capable of considering the last halfhour with some satisfaction, though while it
was passing, the enjoyment of it had been
little. Eager to be alone, and fearful of inquiries or hints from her uncle and aunt, she
stayed with them only long enough to hear
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373
their favourable opinion of Bingley, and then
hurried away to dress.
But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs.
Gardiner’s curiosity; it was not their wish
to force her communication. It was evident
that she was much better acquainted with Mr.
Darcy than they had before any idea of; it was
evident that he was very much in love with
her. They saw much to interest, but nothing
to justify inquiry.
Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and, as far as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find. They
could not be untouched by his politeness; and
had they drawn his character from their own
feelings and his servant’s report, without any
reference to any other account, the circle in
Hertfordshire to which he was known would
not have recognized it for Mr. Darcy. There
was now an interest, however, in believing
the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible that the authority of a servant who had
known him since he was four years old, and
whose own manners indicated respectability,
was not to be hastily rejected. Neither had
anything occurred in the intelligence of their
Lambton friends that could materially lessen
its weight. They had nothing to accuse him of
but pride; pride he probably had, and if not,
it would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants of a small market-town where the family did not visit. It was acknowledged, however, that he was a liberal man, and did much
good among the poor.
With respect to Wickham, the travellers
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soon found that he was not held there in much
estimation; for though the chief of his concerns with the son of his patron were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well-known fact
that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he had left
many debts behind him, which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged.
As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at
Pemberley this evening more than the last;
and the evening, though as it passed it seemed
long, was not long enough to determine her
feelings towards one in that mansion; and she
lay awake two whole hours endeavouring to
make them out. She certainly did not hate
him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and
she had almost as long been ashamed of ever
feeling a dislike against him, that could be
so called. The respect created by the conviction of his valuable qualities, though at
first unwillingly admitted, had for some time
ceased to be repugnant to her feeling; and
it was now heightened into somewhat of a
friendlier nature, by the testimony so highly
in his favour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light, which yesterday had produced. But above all, above respect and esteem, there was a motive within
her of goodwill which could not be overlooked.
It was gratitude; gratitude, not merely for
having once loved her, but for loving her still
well enough to forgive all the petulance and
acrimony of her manner in rejecting him,
and all the unjust accusations accompanying
her rejection. He who, she had been persuaded, would avoid her as his greatest en-
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375
emy, seemed, on this accidental meeting, most
eager to preserve the acquaintance, and without any indelicate display of regard, or any
peculiarity of manner, where their two selves
only were concerned, was soliciting the good
opinion of her friends, and bent on making her
known to his sister. Such a change in a man of
so much pride exciting not only astonishment
but gratitude—for to love, ardent love, it must
be attributed; and as such its impression on
her was of a sort to be encouraged, as by no
means unpleasing, though it could not be exactly defined. She respected, she esteemed,
she was grateful to him, she felt a real interest in his welfare; and she only wanted to
know how far she wished that welfare to depend upon herself, and how far it would be for
the happiness of both that she should employ
the power, which her fancy told her she still
possessed, of bringing on her the renewal of
his addresses.
It had been settled in the evening between
the aunt and the niece, that such a striking
civility as Miss Darcy’s in coming to see them
on the very day of her arrival at Pemberley,
for she had reached it only to a late breakfast, ought to be imitated, though it could not
be equalled, by some exertion of politeness on
their side; and, consequently, that it would be
highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley
the following morning. They were, therefore,
to go. Elizabeth was pleased; though when
she asked herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply.
Mr. Gardiner left them soon after break-
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Pride and Prejudice
fast. The fishing scheme had been renewed
the day before, and a positive engagement
made of his meeting some of the gentlemen
at Pemberley before noon.
Chapter 45
Convinced as Elizabeth now was that Miss
Bingley’s dislike of her had originated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how unwelcome her appearance at Pemberley must be to
her, and was curious to know with how much
civility on that lady’s side the acquaintance
would now be renewed.
On reaching the house, they were shown
through the hall into the saloon, whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer.
Its windows opening to the ground, admitted
a most refreshing view of the high woody hills
behind the house, and of the beautiful oaks
and Spanish chestnuts which were scattered
over the intermediate lawn.
In this house they were received by Miss
Darcy, who was sitting there with Mrs. Hurst
and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom
she lived in London. Georgiana’s reception
of them was very civil, but attended with all
the embarrassment which, though proceeding from shyness and the fear of doing wrong,
would easily give to those who felt themselves
inferior the belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and her niece, however,
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Pride and Prejudice
did her justice, and pitied her.
By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley they were
noticed only by a curtsey; and, on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses
must always be, succeeded for a few moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a
genteel, agreeable-looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind of discourse
proved her to be more truly well-bred than
either of the others; and between her and
Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from Elizabeth, the conversation was carried on. Miss
Darcy looked as if she wished for courage
enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a short sentence when there was least
danger of its being heard.
Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself
closely watched by Miss Bingley, and that she
could not speak a word, especially to Miss
Darcy, without calling her attention. This
observation would not have prevented her
from trying to talk to the latter, had they
not been seated at an inconvenient distance;
but she was not sorry to be spared the necessity of saying much. Her own thoughts
were employing her. She expected every moment that some of the gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she feared that the
master of the house might be amongst them;
and whether she wished or feared it most, she
could scarcely determine. After sitting in this
manner a quarter of an hour without hearing Miss Bingley’s voice, Elizabeth was roused
by receiving from her a cold inquiry after the
health of her family. She answered with equal
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indifference and brevity, and the others said
no more.
The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of
all the finest fruits in season; but this did not
take place till after many a significant look
and smile from Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy
had been given, to remind her of her post.
There was now employment for the whole
party—for though they could not all talk, they
could all eat; and the beautiful pyramids of
grapes, nectarines, and peaches soon collected
them round the table.
While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair
opportunity of deciding whether she most
feared or wished for the appearance of Mr.
Darcy, by the feelings which prevailed on his
entering the room; and then, though but a
moment before she had believed her wishes
to predominate, she began to regret that he
came.
He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner,
who, with two or three other gentlemen from
the house, was engaged by the river, and had
left him only on learning that the ladies of
the family intended a visit to Georgiana that
morning. No sooner did he appear than Elizabeth wisely resolved to be perfectly easy and
unembarrassed; a resolution the more necessary to be made, but perhaps not the more
easily kept, because she saw that the suspicions of the whole party were awakened
against them, and that there was scarcely an
eye which did not watch his behaviour when
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Pride and Prejudice
he first came into the room. In no countenance
was attentive curiosity so strongly marked as
in Miss Bingley’s, in spite of the smiles which
overspread her face whenever she spoke to
one of its objects; for jealousy had not yet
made her desperate, and her attentions to Mr.
Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on
her brother’s entrance, exerted herself much
more to talk, and Elizabeth saw that he was
anxious for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded as much as possible,
every attempt at conversation on either side.
Miss Bingley saw all this likewise; and, in the
imprudence of anger, took the first opportunity of saying, with sneering civility:
“Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ——shire
Militia removed from Meryton? They must be
a great loss to your family.”
In Darcy’s presence she dared not mention Wickham’s name; but Elizabeth instantly
comprehended that he was uppermost in her
thoughts; and the various recollections connected with him gave her a moment’s distress; but exerting herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, she presently answered the question in a tolerably detached
tone. While she spoke, an involuntary glance
showed her Darcy, with a heightened complexion, earnestly looking at her, and his sister
overcome with confusion, and unable to lift up
her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what pain
she was then giving her beloved friend, she
undoubtedly would have refrained from the
hint; but she had merely intended to discompose Elizabeth by bringing forward the idea
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of a man to whom she believed her partial, to
make her betray a sensibility which might injure her in Darcy’s opinion, and, perhaps, to
remind the latter of all the follies and absurdities by which some part of her family were
connected with that corps. Not a syllable had
ever reached her of Miss Darcy’s meditated
elopement. To no creature had it been revealed, where secrecy was possible, except to
Elizabeth; and from all Bingley’s connections
her brother was particularly anxious to conceal it, from the very wish which Elizabeth
had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming hereafter her own. He had certainly
formed such a plan, and without meaning that
it should effect his endeavour to separate him
from Miss Bennet, it is probable that it might
add something to his lively concern for the
welfare of his friend.
Elizabeth’s collected behaviour, however,
soon quieted his emotion; and as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able
to speak any more. Her brother, whose eye
she feared to meet, scarcely recollected her interest in the affair, and the very circumstance
which had been designed to turn his thoughts
from Elizabeth seemed to have fixed them on
her more and more cheerfully.
Their visit did not continue long after the
question and answer above mentioned; and
while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their
carriage Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on Elizabeth’s person, be-
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haviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not
join her. Her brother’s recommendation was
enough to ensure her favour; his judgement
could not err. And he had spoken in such
terms of Elizabeth as to leave Georgiana without the power of finding her otherwise than
lovely and amiable. When Darcy returned to
the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to him some part of what she had been
saying to his sister.
“How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this
morning, Mr. Darcy,” she cried; “I never in my
life saw anyone so much altered as she is since
the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse!
Louisa and I were agreeing that we should not
have known her again.”
However little Mr. Darcy might have liked
such an address, he contented himself with
coolly replying that he perceived no other alteration than her being rather tanned, no
miraculous consequence of travelling in the
summer.
“For my own part,” she rejoined, “I must
confess that I never could see any beauty in
her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has
no brilliancy; and her features are not at all
handsome. Her nose wants character—there
is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are
tolerable, but not out of the common way;
and as for her eyes, which have sometimes
been called so fine, I could never see anything
extraordinary in them. They have a sharp,
shrewish look, which I do not like at all; and
in her air altogether there is a self-sufficiency
without fashion, which is intolerable.”
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383
Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy
admired Elizabeth, this was not the best
method of recommending herself; but angry
people are not always wise; and in seeing him
at last look somewhat nettled, she had all
the success she expected. He was resolutely
silent, however, and, from a determination of
making him speak, she continued:
“I remember, when we first knew her in
Hertfordshire, how amazed we all were to find
that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect your saying one night, after
they had been dining at Netherfield, ‘She a
beauty!—I should as soon call her mother a
wit.’ But afterwards she seemed to improve
on you, and I believe you thought her rather
pretty at one time.”
“Yes,” replied Darcy, who could contain
himself no longer, “but that was only when I
first saw her, for it is many months since I
have considered her as one of the handsomest
women of my acquaintances.”
He then went away, and Miss Bingley was
left to all the satisfaction of having forced him
to say what gave no one any pain but herself.
Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all
that had occurred during their visit, as they
returned, except what had particularly interested them both. The look and behaviour of
everybody they had seen were discussed, except of the person who had mostly engaged
their attention. They talked of his sister, his
friends, his house, his fruit—of everything but
himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know
what Mrs. Gardiner thought of him, and Mrs.
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Pride and Prejudice
Gardiner would have been highly gratified by
her niece’s beginning the subject.
Chapter 46
Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed
in not finding a letter from Jane on their first
arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment
had been renewed on each of the mornings
that had now been spent there; but on the
third her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the receipt of two letters from her
at once, on one of which was marked that it
had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was
not surprised at it, as Jane had written the
direction remarkably ill.
They had just been preparing to walk as
the letters came in; and her uncle and aunt,
leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off
by themselves. The one missent must first
be attended to; it had been written five days
ago. The beginning contained an account of
all their little parties and engagements, with
such news as the country afforded; but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident agitation, gave more important
intelligence. It was to this effect:
“Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred
of a most unexpected and serious
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Pride and Prejudice
nature; but I am afraid of alarming you—be assured that we are
all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia. An express
came at twelve last night, just
as we were all gone to bed, from
Colonel Forster, to inform us that
she was gone off to Scotland with
one of his officers; to own the truth,
with Wickham! Imagine our surprise. To Kitty, however, it does
not seem so wholly unexpected. I
am very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But
I am willing to hope the best, and
that his character has been misunderstood. Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but
this step (and let us rejoice over it)
marks nothing bad at heart. His
choice is disinterested at least, for
he must know my father can give
her nothing. Our poor mother is
sadly grieved. My father bears it
better. How thankful am I that we
never let them know what has been
said against him; we must forget
it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about twelve, as is conjectured, but were not missed till
yesterday morning at eight. The
express was sent off directly. My
dear Lizzy, they must have passed
within ten miles of us. Colonel
Forster gives us reason to expect
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387
him here soon. Lydia left a few
lines for his wife, informing her of
their intention. I must conclude,
for I cannot be long from my poor
mother. I am afraid you will not
be able to make it out, but I hardly
know what I have written.”
Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing what she felt,
Elizabeth on finishing this letter instantly
seized the other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it had been
written a day later than the conclusion of the
first.
“By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried
letter; I wish this may be more
intelligible, but though not confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer for
being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I
hardly know what I would write,
but I have bad news for you, and
it cannot be delayed. Imprudent
as the marriage between Mr. Wickham and our poor Lydia would be,
we are now anxious to be assured
it has taken place, for there is
but too much reason to fear they
are not gone to Scotland. Colonel
Forster came yesterday, having left
Brighton the day before, not many
hours after the express. Though
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Pride and Prejudice
Lydia’s short letter to Mrs. F. gave
them to understand that they were
going to Gretna Green, something
was dropped by Denny expressing
his belief that W. never intended
to go there, or to marry Lydia at
all, which was repeated to Colonel
F., who, instantly taking the alarm,
set off from B. intending to trace
their route. He did trace them
easily to Clapham, but no further;
for on entering that place, they removed into a hackney coach, and
dismissed the chaise that brought
them from Epsom. All that is
known after this is, that they were
seen to continue the London road. I
know not what to think. After making every possible inquiry on that
side of London, Colonel F. came
on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes,
and at the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but without any success—no
such people had been seen to pass
through. With the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and
broke his apprehensions to us in
a manner most creditable to his
heart. I am sincerely grieved for
him and Mrs. F., but no one can
throw any blame on them. Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great.
My father and mother believe the
worst, but I cannot think so ill of
Chapter 46
him. Many circumstances might
make it more eligible for them to be
married privately in town than to
pursue their first plan; and even if
he could form such a design against
a young woman of Lydia’s connections, which is not likely, can I suppose her so lost to everything? Impossible! I grieve to find, however, that Colonel F. is not disposed
to depend upon their marriage; he
shook his head when I expressed
my hopes, and said he feared W.
was not a man to be trusted. My
poor mother is really ill, and keeps
her room. Could she exert herself,
it would be better; but this is not
to be expected. And as to my father, I never in my life saw him so
affected. Poor Kitty has anger for
having concealed their attachment;
but as it was a matter of confidence,
one cannot wonder. I am truly glad,
dearest Lizzy, that you have been
spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as the first
shock is over, shall I own that I long
for your return? I am not so selfish,
however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu!
I take up my pen again to do
what I have just told you I would
not; but circumstances are such
that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as soon
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as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well, that I am
not afraid of requesting it, though
I have still something more to ask
of the former. My father is going
to London with Colonel Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What
he means to do I am sure I know
not; but his excessive distress will
not allow him to pursue any measure in the best and safest way, and
Colonel Forster is obliged to be at
Brighton again to-morrow evening.
In such an exigence, my uncle’s advice and assistance would be everything in the world; he will immediately comprehend what I must feel,
and I rely upon his goodness.”
“Oh! where, where is my uncle?” cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat as she finished
the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing a moment of the time so precious;
but as she reached the door it was opened by
a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale
face and impetuous manner made him start,
and before he could recover himself to speak,
she, in whose mind every idea was superseded
by Lydia’s situation, hastily exclaimed, “I beg
your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find
Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that
cannot be delayed; I have not an instant to
loose.”
“Good God! what is the matter?” cried he,
with more feeling than politeness; then rec-
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ollecting himself, “I will not detain you a
minute; but let me, or let the servant go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are not well
enough; you cannot go yourself.”
Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her and she felt how little would
be gained by her attempting to pursue them.
Calling back the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless an
accent as made her almost unintelligible, to
fetch his master and mistress home instantly.
On his quitting the room she sat down, unable to support herself, and looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to
leave her, or to refrain from saying, in a tone
of gentleness and commiseration, “Let me call
your maid. Is there nothing you could take to
give you present relief? A glass of wine; shall
I get you one? You are very ill.”
“No, I thank you,” she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. “There is nothing the
matter with me. I am quite well; I am only distressed by some dreadful news which I have
just received from Longbourn.”
She burst into tears as she alluded to it,
and for a few minutes could not speak another
word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could
only say something indistinctly of his concern,
and observe her in compassionate silence. At
length she spoke again. “I have just had a
letter from Jane, with such dreadful news. It
cannot be concealed from anyone. My younger
sister has left all her friends—has eloped;
has thrown herself into the power of—of Mr.
Wickham. They are gone off together from
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Brighton. You know him too well to doubt
the rest. She has no money, no connections,
nothing that can tempt him to—she is lost for
ever.”
Darcy was fixed in astonishment. “When
I consider,” she added in a yet more agitated
voice, “that I might have prevented it! I, who
knew what he was. Had I but explained some
part of it only—some part of what I learnt,
to my own family! Had his character been
known, this could not have happened. But it
is all—all too late now.”
“I am grieved indeed,” cried Darcy;
“grieved — shocked. But is it certain — absolutely certain?”
“Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on
Sunday night, and were traced almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not
gone to Scotland.”
“And what has been done, what has been
attempted, to recover her?”
“My father is gone to London, and Jane
has written to beg my uncle’s immediate assistance; and we shall be off, I hope, in halfan-hour. But nothing can be done—I know
very well that nothing can be done. How is
such a man to be worked on? How are they
even to be discovered? I have not the smallest
hope. It is every way horrible!”
Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.
“When my eyes were opened to his real
character—Oh! had I known what I ought,
what I dared to do! But I knew not—I was
afraid of doing too much. Wretched, wretched
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mistake!”
Darcy made no answer.
He seemed
scarcely to hear her, and was walking up
and down the room in earnest meditation, his
brow contracted, his air gloomy. Elizabeth
soon observed, and instantly understood it.
Her power was sinking; everything must sink
under such a proof of family weakness, such
an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She
could neither wonder nor condemn, but the
belief of his self-conquest brought nothing to
her consolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It was, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own wishes; and never had she so
honestly felt that she could have loved him,
as now, when all love must be vain.
But self, though it would intrude, could
not engross her. Lydia—the humiliation, the
misery she was bringing on them all, soon
swallowed up every private care; and covering her face with her handkerchief, Elizabeth
was soon lost to everything else; and, after a
pause of several minutes, was only recalled to
a sense of her situation by the voice of her
companion, who, in a manner which, though
it spoke compassion, spoke likewise restraint,
said, “I am afraid you have been long desiring
my absence, nor have I anything to plead in
excuse of my stay, but real, though unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that anything
could be either said or done on my part that
might offer consolation to such distress! But I
will not torment you with vain wishes, which
may seem purposely to ask for your thanks.
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This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my
sister’s having the pleasure of seeing you at
Pemberley to-day.”
“Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologise for us
to Miss Darcy. Say that urgent business calls
us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy
truth as long as it is possible, I know it cannot
be long.”
He readily assured her of his secrecy;
again expressed his sorrow for her distress,
wished it a happier conclusion than there was
at present reason to hope, and leaving his
compliments for her relations, with only one
serious, parting look, went away.
As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how
improbable it was that they should ever see
each other again on such terms of cordiality as had marked their several meetings in
Derbyshire; and as she threw a retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of contradictions and varieties,
sighed at the perverseness of those feelings
which would now have promoted its continuance, and would formerly have rejoiced in its
termination.
If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth’s change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty.
But if otherwise—if regard springing from
such sources is unreasonable or unnatural, in
comparison of what is so often described as
arising on a first interview with its object, and
even before two words have been exchanged,
nothing can be said in her defence, except
that she had given somewhat of a trial to the
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latter method in her partiality for Wickham,
and that its ill success might, perhaps, authorise her to seek the other less interesting
mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she
saw him go with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia’s infamy must produce,
found additional anguish as she reflected on
that wretched business. Never, since reading Jane’s second letter, had she entertained
a hope of Wickham’s meaning to marry her.
No one but Jane, she thought, could flatter
herself with such an expectation. Surprise
was the least of her feelings on this development. While the contents of the first letter remained in her mind, she was all surprise—all
astonishment that Wickham should marry a
girl whom it was impossible he could marry
for money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had appeared incomprehensible.
But now it was all too natural. For such an
attachment as this she might have sufficient
charms; and though she did not suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement without the intention of marriage, she
had no difficulty in believing that neither her
virtue nor her understanding would preserve
her from falling an easy prey.
She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that Lydia had
any partiality for him; but she was convinced that Lydia wanted only encouragement to attach herself to anybody. Sometimes
one officer, sometimes another, had been her
favourite, as their attentions raised them in
her opinion. Her affections had continually
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been fluctuating but never without an object.
The mischief of neglect and mistaken indulgence towards such a girl—oh! how acutely
did she now feel it!
She was wild to be at home—to hear, to
see, to be upon the spot to share with Jane
in the cares that must now fall wholly upon
her, in a family so deranged, a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion, and requiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing could be done
for Lydia, her uncle’s interference seemed of
the utmost importance, and till he entered the
room her impatience was severe. Mr. and Mrs.
Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing by the servant’s account that their niece
was taken suddenly ill; but satisfying them
instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause of their summons, reading
the two letters aloud, and dwelling on the
postscript of the last with trembling energy,
though Lydia had never been a favourite with
them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but
be deeply afflicted. Not Lydia only, but all
were concerned in it; and after the first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner
promised every assistance in his power. Elizabeth, though expecting no less, thanked him
with tears of gratitude; and all three being
actuated by one spirit, everything relating to
their journey was speedily settled. They were
to be off as soon as possible. “But what is to be
done about Pemberley?” cried Mrs. Gardiner.
“John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you
sent for us; was it so?”
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“Yes; and I told him we should not be able
to keep our engagement. That is all settled.”
“What is all settled?” repeated the other,
as she ran into her room to prepare. “And are
they upon such terms as for her to disclose the
real truth? Oh, that I knew how it was!”
But wishes were vain, or at least could
only serve to amuse her in the hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth
been at leisure to be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was impossible to one so wretched as herself; but
she had her share of business as well as her
aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes
to be written to all their friends at Lambton,
with false excuses for their sudden departure.
An hour, however, saw the whole completed;
and Mr. Gardiner meanwhile having settled
his account at the inn, nothing remained to
be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all
the misery of the morning, found herself, in
a shorter space of time than she could have
supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the
road to Longbourn.
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Chapter 47
“I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth,” said her uncle, as they drove from the
town; “and really, upon serious consideration,
I am much more inclined than I was to judge
as your eldest sister does on the matter. It appears to me so very unlikely that any young
man should form such a design against a girl
who is by no means unprotected or friendless,
and who was actually staying in his colonel’s
family, that I am strongly inclined to hope the
best. Could he expect that her friends would
not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is not
adequate to the risk!”
“Do you really think so?” cried Elizabeth,
brightening up for a moment.
“Upon my word,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “I begin to be of your uncle’s opinion. It is really too
great a violation of decency, honour, and interest, for him to be guilty of. I cannot think so
very ill of Wickham. Can you yourself, Lizzy,
so wholly give him up, as to believe him capable of it?”
“Not, perhaps, of neglecting his own inter-
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est; but of every other neglect I can believe
him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I
dare not hope it. Why should they not go on to
Scotland if that had been the case?”
“In the first place,” replied Mr. Gardiner,
“there is no absolute proof that they are not
gone to Scotland.”
“Oh! but their removing from the chaise
into a hackney coach is such a presumption!
And, besides, no traces of them were to be
found on the Barnet road.”
“Well, then—supposing them to be in London. They may be there, though for the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptional
purpose. It is not likely that money should
be very abundant on either side; and it might
strike them that they could be more economically, though less expeditiously, married in
London than in Scotland.”
“But why all this secrecy? Why any fear
of detection? Why must their marriage be
private? Oh, no, no—this is not likely. His
most particular friend, you see by Jane’s account, was persuaded of his never intending
to marry her. Wickham will never marry a
woman without some money. He cannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia—what attraction has she beyond youth, health, and
good humour that could make him, for her
sake, forego every chance of benefiting himself
by marrying well? As to what restraint the
apprehensions of disgrace in the corps might
throw on a dishonourable elopement with her,
I am not able to judge; for I know nothing
of the effects that such a step might produce.
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But as to your other objection, I am afraid it
will hardly hold good. Lydia has no brothers
to step forward; and he might imagine, from
my father’s behaviour, from his indolence and
the little attention he has ever seemed to give
to what was going forward in his family, that
he would do as little, and think as little about
it, as any father could do, in such a matter.”
“But can you think that Lydia is so lost to
everything but love of him as to consent to live
with him on any terms other than marriage?”
“It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed,” replied Elizabeth, with tears in her
eyes, “that a sister’s sense of decency and
virtue in such a point should admit of doubt.
But, really, I know not what to say. Perhaps
I am not doing her justice. But she is very
young; she has never been taught to think
on serious subjects; and for the last half-year,
nay, for a twelvemonth—she has been given
up to nothing but amusement and vanity. She
has been allowed to dispose of her time in the
most idle and frivolous manner, and to adopt
any opinions that came in her way. Since
the ——shire were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love, flirtation, and officers
have been in her head. She has been doing
everything in her power by thinking and talking on the subject, to give greater—what shall
I call it? susceptibility to her feelings; which
are naturally lively enough. And we all know
that Wickham has every charm of person and
address that can captivate a woman.”
“But you see that Jane,” said her aunt,
“does not think so very ill of Wickham as to
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believe him capable of the attempt.”
“Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And
who is there, whatever might be their former
conduct, that she would think capable of such
an attempt, till it were proved against them?
But Jane knows, as well as I do, what Wickham really is. We both know that he has been
profligate in every sense of the word; that he
has neither integrity nor honour; that he is as
false and deceitful as he is insinuating.”
“And do you really know all this?” cried
Mrs. Gardiner, whose curiosity as to the mode
of her intelligence was all alive.
“I do indeed,” replied Elizabeth, colouring.
“I told you, the other day, of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you yourself, when
last at Longbourn, heard in what manner he
spoke of the man who had behaved with such
forbearance and liberality towards him. And
there are other circumstances which I am not
at liberty—which it is not worth while to relate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley
family are endless. From what he said of
Miss Darcy I was thoroughly prepared to see
a proud, reserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he
knew to the contrary himself. He must know
that she was as amiable and unpretending as
we have found her.”
“But does Lydia know nothing of this? can
she be ignorant of what you and Jane seem so
well to understand?”
“Oh, yes!—that, that is the worst of
all. Till I was in Kent, and saw so much
both of Mr. Darcy and his relation Colonel
Fitzwilliam, I was ignorant of the truth my-
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self. And when I returned home, the ——shire
was to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight’s
time. As that was the case, neither Jane, to
whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it
necessary to make our knowledge public; for
of what use could it apparently be to any one,
that the good opinion which all the neighbourhood had of him should then be overthrown? And even when it was settled that
Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening her eyes to his character never
occurred to me. That she could be in any
danger from the deception never entered my
head. That such a consequence as this could
ensue, you may easily believe, was far enough
from my thoughts.”
“When they all removed to Brighton,
therefore, you had no reason, I suppose, to believe them fond of each other?”
“Not the slightest. I can remember no
symptom of affection on either side; and had
anything of the kind been perceptible, you
must be aware that ours is not a family on
which it could be thrown away. When first
he entered the corps, she was ready enough to
admire him; but so we all were. Every girl in
or near Meryton was out of her senses about
him for the first two months; but he never
distinguished her by any particular attention;
and, consequently, after a moderate period of
extravagant and wild admiration, her fancy
for him gave way, and others of the regiment,
who treated her with more distinction, again
became her favourites.”
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It may be easily believed, that however
little of novelty could be added to their
fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by its repeated discussion, no
other could detain them from it long, during
the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth’s
thoughts it was never absent. Fixed there by
the keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she
could find no interval of ease or forgetfulness.
They travelled as expeditiously as possible,
and, sleeping one night on the road, reached
Longbourn by dinner time the next day. It was
a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane
could not have been wearied by long expectations.
The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight
of a chaise, were standing on the steps of the
house as they entered the paddock; and, when
the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful
surprise that lighted up their faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of capers and frisks, was the first pleasing
earnest of their welcome.
Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving
each of them a hasty kiss, hurried into the
vestibule, where Jane, who came running
down from her mother’s apartment, immediately met her.
Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced
her, whilst tears filled the eyes of both, lost
not a moment in asking whether anything had
been heard of the fugitives.
“Not yet,” replied Jane. “But now that my
dear uncle is come, I hope everything will be
well.”
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“Is my father in town?”
“Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you
word.”
“And have you heard from him often?”
“We have heard only twice. He wrote me a
few lines on Wednesday to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions,
which I particularly begged him to do. He
merely added that he should not write again
till he had something of importance to mention.”
“And my mother—how is she? How are you
all?”
“My mother is tolerably well, I trust;
though her spirits are greatly shaken. She
is upstairs and will have great satisfaction in
seeing you all. She does not yet leave her
dressing-room. Mary and Kitty are, thank
Heaven, are quite well.”
“But you—how are you?” cried Elizabeth.
“You look pale. How much you must have gone
through!”
Her sister, however, assured her of her
being perfectly well; and their conversation,
which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs.
Gardiner were engaged with their children,
was now put an end to by the approach of the
whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt,
and welcomed and thanked them both, with
alternate smiles and tears.
When they were all in the drawing-room,
the questions which Elizabeth had already
asked were of course repeated by the others,
and they soon found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of good,
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however, which the benevolence of her heart
suggested had not yet deserted her; she still
expected that it would all end well, and that
every morning would bring some letter, either
from Lydia or her father, to explain their proceedings, and, perhaps, announce their marriage.
Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all
repaired, after a few minutes’ conversation
together, received them exactly as might be
expected; with tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainous conduct
of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill-usage; blaming everybody but
the person to whose ill-judging indulgence the
errors of her daughter must principally be owing.
“If I had been able,” said she, “to carry my
point in going to Brighton, with all my family, this would not have happened; but poor
dear Lydia had nobody to take care of her.
Why did the Forsters ever let her go out of
their sight? I am sure there was some great
neglect or other on their side, for she is not
the kind of girl to do such a thing if she had
been well looked after. I always thought they
were very unfit to have the charge of her; but
I was overruled, as I always am. Poor dear
child! And now here’s Mr. Bennet gone away,
and I know he will fight Wickham, wherever
he meets him and then he will be killed, and
what is to become of us all? The Collinses will
turn us out before he is cold in his grave, and
if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know
what we shall do.”
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They all exclaimed against such terrific
ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her that he meant to be in London the
very next day, and would assist Mr. Bennet in
every endeavour for recovering Lydia.
“Do not give way to useless alarm,” added
he; “though it is right to be prepared for the
worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain. It is not quite a week since they left
Brighton. In a few days more we may gain
some news of them; and till we know that they
are not married, and have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over as
lost. As soon as I get to town I shall go to my
brother, and make him come home with me to
Gracechurch Street; and then we may consult
together as to what is to be done.”
“Oh! my dear brother,” replied Mrs. Bennet, “that is exactly what I could most wish
for. And now do, when you get to town, find
them out, wherever they may be; and if they
are not married already, make them marry.
And as for wedding clothes, do not let them
wait for that, but tell Lydia she shall have as
much money as she chooses to buy them, after they are married. And, above all, keep Mr.
Bennet from fighting. Tell him what a dreadful state I am in, that I am frighted out of my
wits—and have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me—such spasms in my side and
pains in my head, and such beatings at heart,
that I can get no rest by night nor by day. And
tell my dear Lydia not to give any directions
about her clothes till she has seen me, for she
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does not know which are the best warehouses.
Oh, brother, how kind you are! I know you
will contrive it all.”
But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her
again of his earnest endeavours in the cause,
could not avoid recommending moderation to
her, as well in her hopes as her fear; and after talking with her in this manner till dinner
was on the table, they all left her to vent all
her feelings on the housekeeper, who attended
in the absence of her daughters.
Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real occasion for
such a seclusion from the family, they did not
attempt to oppose it, for they knew that she
had not prudence enough to hold her tongue
before the servants, while they waited at table, and judged it better that one only of the
household, and the one whom they could most
trust should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the subject.
In the dining-room they were soon joined
by Mary and Kitty, who had been too busily
engaged in their separate apartments to make
their appearance before. One came from her
books, and the other from her toilette. The
faces of both, however, were tolerably calm;
and no change was visible in either, except
that the loss of her favourite sister, or the
anger which she had herself incurred in this
business, had given more of fretfulness than
usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she
was mistress enough of herself to whisper to
Elizabeth, with a countenance of grave reflection, soon after they were seated at table:
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“This is a most unfortunate affair, and will
probably be much talked of. But we must stem
the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded
bosoms of each other the balm of sisterly consolation.”
Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added, “Unhappy as the
event must be for Lydia, we may draw from
it this useful lesson: that loss of virtue in a
female is irretrievable; that one false step involves her in endless ruin; that her reputation
is no less brittle than it is beautiful; and that
she cannot be too much guarded in her behaviour towards the undeserving of the other
sex.”
Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement,
but was too much oppressed to make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such kind of moral extractions from
the evil before them.
In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for half-an-hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed herself
of the opportunity of making any inquiries,
which Jane was equally eager to satisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the
dreadful sequel of this event, which Elizabeth
considered as all but certain, and Miss Bennet could not assert to be wholly impossible,
the former continued the subject, by saying,
“But tell me all and everything about it which
I have not already heard. Give me further particulars. What did Colonel Forster say? Had
they no apprehension of anything before the
elopement took place? They must have seen
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them together for ever.”
“Colonel Forster did own that he had often
suspected some partiality, especially on Lydia’s side, but nothing to give him any alarm.
I am so grieved for him! His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He was coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern,
before he had any idea of their not being gone
to Scotland: when that apprehension first got
abroad, it hastened his journey.”
“And was Denny convinced that Wickham
would not marry? Did he know of their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen
Denny himself?”
“Yes; but, when questioned by him, Denny
denied knowing anything of their plans, and
would not give his real opinion about it. He
did not repeat his persuasion of their not
marrying—and from that, I am inclined to
hope, he might have been misunderstood before.”
“And till Colonel Forster came himself, not
one of you entertained a doubt, I suppose, of
their being really married?”
“How was it possible that such an idea
should enter our brains?
I felt a little
uneasy—a little fearful of my sister’s happiness with him in marriage, because I knew
that his conduct had not been always quite
right. My father and mother knew nothing of
that; they only felt how imprudent a match it
must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural triumph on knowing more than the rest
of us, that in Lydia’s last letter she had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it
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seems, of their being in love with each other,
many weeks.”
“But not before they went to Brighton?”
“No, I believe not.”
“And did Colonel Forster appear to think
well of Wickham himself? Does he know his
real character?”
“I must confess that he did not speak so
well of Wickham as he formerly did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant.
And since this sad affair has taken place, it is
said that he left Meryton greatly in debt; but
I hope this may be false.”
“Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we
told what we knew of him, this could not have
happened!”
“Perhaps it would have been better,”
replied her sister. “But to expose the former
faults of any person without knowing what
their present feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions.”
“Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia’s note to his wife?”
“He brought it with him for us to see.”
Jane then took it from her pocket-book,
and gave it to Elizabeth. These were the contents:
“M Y DEAR H ARRIET,
“You will laugh when you know
where I am gone, and I cannot
help laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon
as I am missed. I am going to
Gretna Green, and if you cannot
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guess with who, I shall think you a
simpleton, for there is but one man
in the world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without him, so think it no harm to be
off. You need not send them word
at Longbourn of my going, if you
do not like it, for it will make the
surprise the greater, when I write
to them and sign my name ‘Lydia
Wickham.’ What a good joke it will
be! I can hardly write for laughing.
Pray make my excuses to Pratt for
not keeping my engagement, and
dancing with him to-night. Tell
him I hope he will excuse me when
he knows all; and tell him I will
dance with him at the next ball we
meet, with great pleasure. I shall
send for my clothes when I get to
Longbourn; but I wish you would
tell Sally to mend a great slit in my
worked muslin gown before they
are packed up. Good-bye. Give my
love to Colonel Forster. I hope you
will drink to our good journey.
“Your affectionate friend,
“LYDIA B ENNET.”
“Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!” cried
Elizabeth when she had finished it. What
a letter is this, to be written at such a moment! But at least it shows that she was serious on the subject of their journey. Whatever
he might afterwards persuade her to, it was
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413
not on her side a scheme of infamy. My poor
father! how he must have felt it!”
“I never saw anyone so shocked. He could
not speak a word for full ten minutes. My
mother was taken ill immediately, and the
whole house in such confusion!”
“Oh! Jane,” cried Elizabeth, “was there a
servant belonging to it who did not know the
whole story before the end of the day?”
“I do not know. I hope there was. But to
be guarded at such a time is very difficult.
My mother was in hysterics, and though I endeavoured to give her every assistance in my
power, I am afraid I did not do so much as
I might have done! But the horror of what
might possibly happen almost took from me
my faculties.”
“Your attendance upon her has been too
much for you. You do not look well. Oh that
I had been with you! you have had every care
and anxiety upon yourself alone.”
“Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and
would have shared in every fatigue, I am sure;
but I did not think it right for either of them.
Kitty is slight and delicate; and Mary studies so much, that her hours of repose should
not be broken in on. My aunt Phillips came to
Longbourn on Tuesday, after my father went
away; and was so good as to stay till Thursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all. And Lady Lucas has been very
kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning
to condole with us, and offered her services, or
any of her daughters’, if they should be of use
to us.”
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Pride and Prejudice
“She had better have stayed at home,”
cried Elizabeth; “perhaps she meant well, but,
under such a misfortune as this, one cannot
see too little of one’s neighbours. Assistance is
impossible; condolence insufferable. Let them
triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied.”
She then proceeded to inquire into the
measures which her father had intended to
pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his
daughter.
“He meant I believe,” replied Jane, “to go
to Epsom, the place where they last changed
horses, see the postilions and try if anything
could be made out from them. His principal object must be to discover the number
of the hackney coach which took them from
Clapham. It had come with a fare from London; and as he thought that the circumstance
of a gentleman and lady’s removing from one
carriage into another might be remarked he
meant to make inquiries at Clapham. If
he could anyhow discover at what house the
coachman had before set down his fare, he determined to make inquiries there, and hoped
it might not be impossible to find out the stand
and number of the coach. I do not know of any
other designs that he had formed; but he was
in such a hurry to be gone, and his spirits so
greatly discomposed, that I had difficulty in
finding out even so much as this.”
Chapter 48
The whole party were in hopes of a letter from
Mr. Bennet the next morning, but the post
came in without bringing a single line from
him. His family knew him to be, on all common occasions, a most negligent and dilatory
correspondent; but at such a time they had
hoped for exertion. They were forced to conclude that he had no pleasing intelligence to
send; but even of that they would have been
glad to be certain. Mr. Gardiner had waited
only for the letters before he set off.
When he was gone, they were certain
at least of receiving constant information of
what was going on, and their uncle promised,
at parting, to prevail on Mr. Bennet to return
to Longbourn, as soon as he could, to the great
consolation of his sister, who considered it as
the only security for her husband’s not being
killed in a duel.
Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a few days longer, as
the former thought her presence might be serviceable to her nieces. She shared in their
attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a great
comfort to them in their hours of freedom.
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Pride and Prejudice
Their other aunt also visited them frequently,
and always, as she said, with the design of
cheering and heartening them up—though, as
she never came without reporting some fresh
instance of Wickham’s extravagance or irregularity, she seldom went away without leaving
them more dispirited than she found them.
All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the
man who, but three months before, had been
almost an angel of light. He was declared to be
in debt to every tradesman in the place, and
his intrigues, all honoured with the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman’s family. Everybody declared that he was
the wickedest young man in the world; and
everybody began to find out that they had always distrusted the appearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit
above half of what was said, believed enough
to make her former assurance of her sister’s
ruin more certain; and even Jane, who believed still less of it, became almost hopeless,
more especially as the time was now come
when, if they had gone to Scotland, which she
had never before entirely despaired of, they
must in all probability have gained some news
of them.
Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday;
on Tuesday his wife received a letter from
him; it told them that, on his arrival, he had
immediately found out his brother, and persuaded him to come to Gracechurch Street;
that Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and
Clapham, before his arrival, but without gaining any satisfactory information; and that he
Chapter 48
417
was now determined to inquire at all the principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet thought it
possible they might have gone to one of them,
on their first coming to London, before they
procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself did
not expect any success from this measure, but
as his brother was eager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added that Mr.
Bennet seemed wholly disinclined at present
to leave London and promised to write again
very soon. There was also a postscript to this
effect:
“I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if possible, from some of
the young man’s intimates in the regiment,
whether Wickham has any relations or connections who would be likely to know in what
part of town he has now concealed himself.
If there were anyone that one could apply to
with a probability of gaining such a clue as
that, it might be of essential consequence. At
present we have nothing to guide us. Colonel
Forster will, I dare say, do everything in his
power to satisfy us on this head. But, on
second thoughts, perhaps, Lizzy could tell us
what relations he has now living, better than
any other person.”
Elizabeth was at no loss to understand
from whence this deference to her authority
proceeded; but it was not in her power to give
any information of so satisfactory a nature
as the compliment deserved. She had never
heard of his having had any relations, except
a father and mother, both of whom had been
dead many years. It was possible, however,
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Pride and Prejudice
that some of his companions in the ——shire
might be able to give more information; and
though she was not very sanguine in expecting it, the application was a something to look
forward to.
Every day at Longbourn was now a day
of anxiety; but the most anxious part of each
was when the post was expected. The arrival
of letters was the grand object of every morning’s impatience. Through letters, whatever of
good or bad was to be told would be communicated, and every succeeding day was expected
to bring some news of importance.
But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived for their father, from a
different quarter, from Mr. Collins; which, as
Jane had received directions to open all that
came for him in his absence, she accordingly
read; and Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his letters always were, looked over her,
and read it likewise. It was as follows:
“M Y DEAR SIR,
“I feel myself called upon, by
our relationship, and my situation in life, to condole with you
on the grievous affliction you are
now suffering under, of which we
were yesterday informed by a letter from Hertfordshire. Be assured,
my dear sir, that Mrs. Collins
and myself sincerely sympathise
with you and all your respectable
family, in your present distress,
which must be of the bitterest kind,
Chapter 48
because proceeding from a cause
which no time can remove. No arguments shall be wanting on my
part that can alleviate so severe
a misfortune—or that may comfort you, under a circumstance that
must be of all others the most afflicting to a parent’s mind. The
death of your daughter would have
been a blessing in comparison of
this. And it is the more to be
lamented, because there is reason
to suppose as my dear Charlotte
informs me, that this licentiousness of behaviour in your daughter has proceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence; though, at the
same time, for the consolation of
yourself and Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think that her own disposition must be naturally bad, or she
could not be guilty of such an enormity, at so early an age. Howsoever
that may be, you are grievously to
be pitied; in which opinion I am
not only joined by Mrs. Collins, but
likewise by Lady Catherine and
her daughter, to whom I have related the affair. They agree with
me in apprehending that this false
step in one daughter will be injurious to the fortunes of all the
others; for who, as Lady Catherine herself condescendingly says,
will connect themselves with such
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Pride and Prejudice
a family? And this consideration
leads me moreover to reflect, with
augmented satisfaction, on a certain event of last November; for
had it been otherwise, I must have
been involved in all your sorrow
and disgrace. Let me then advise
you, dear sir, to console yourself as
much as possible, to throw off your
unworthy child from your affection
for ever, and leave her to reap the
fruits of her own heinous offense.
“I am, dear sir, etc., etc.”
Mr. Gardiner did not write again till he
had received an answer from Colonel Forster;
and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature
to send. It was not known that Wickham had
a single relationship with whom he kept up
any connection, and it was certain that he had
no near one living. His former acquaintances
had been numerous; but since he had been
in the militia, it did not appear that he was
on terms of particular friendship with any of
them. There was no one, therefore, who could
be pointed out as likely to give any news of
him. And in the wretched state of his own
finances, there was a very powerful motive
for secrecy, in addition to his fear of discovery
by Lydia’s relations, for it had just transpired
that he had left gaming debts behind him to
a very considerable amount. Colonel Forster
believed that more than a thousand pounds
would be necessary to clear his expenses at
Brighton. He owed a good deal in town, but
Chapter 48
421
his debts of honour were still more formidable.
Mr. Gardiner did not attempt to conceal these
particulars from the Longbourn family. Jane
heard them with horror. “A gamester!” she
cried. “This is wholly unexpected. I had not
an idea of it.”
Mr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they
might expect to see their father at home on
the following day, which was Saturday. Rendered spiritless by the ill-success of all their
endeavours, he had yielded to his brother-inlaw’s entreaty that he would return to his
family, and leave it to him to do whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable for continuing their pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was
told of this, she did not express so much satisfaction as her children expected, considering
what her anxiety for his life had been before.
“What, is he coming home, and without
poor Lydia?” she cried. “Sure he will not leave
London before he has found them. Who is to
fight Wickham, and make him marry her, if he
comes away?”
As Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at
home, it was settled that she and the children
should go to London, at the same time that
Mr. Bennet came from it. The coach, therefore, took them the first stage of their journey,
and brought its master back to Longbourn.
Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and her Derbyshire
friend that had attended her from that part
of the world. His name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece;
and the kind of half-expectation which Mrs.
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Pride and Prejudice
Gardiner had formed, of their being followed
by a letter from him, had ended in nothing.
Elizabeth had received none since her return
that could come from Pemberley.
The present unhappy state of the family
rendered any other excuse for the lowness of
her spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore,
could be fairly conjectured from that, though
Elizabeth, who was by this time tolerably well
acquainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware that, had she known nothing of
Darcy, she could have borne the dread of Lydia’s infamy somewhat better. It would have
spared her, she thought, one sleepless night
out of two.
When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the
appearance of his usual philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been
in the habit of saying; made no mention of the
business that had taken him away, and it was
some time before his daughters had courage
to speak of it.
It was not till the afternoon, when he had
joined them at tea, that Elizabeth ventured to
introduce the subject; and then, on her briefly
expressing her sorrow for what he must have
endured, he replied, “Say nothing of that.
Who should suffer but myself? It has been my
own doing, and I ought to feel it.”
“You must not be too severe upon yourself,”
replied Elizabeth.
“You may well warn me against such an
evil. Human nature is so prone to fall into
it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how
much I have been to blame. I am not afraid of
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423
being overpowered by the impression. It will
pass away soon enough.”
“Do you suppose them to be in London?”
“Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?”
“And Lydia used to want to go to London,”
added Kitty.
“She is happy then,” said her father drily;
“and her residence there will probably be of
some duration.”
Then after a short silence he continued:
“Lizzy, I bear you no ill-will for being justified in your advice to me last May, which,
considering the event, shows some greatness
of mind.”
They were interrupted by Miss Bennet,
who came to fetch her mother’s tea.
“This is a parade,” he cried, “which does
one good; it gives such an elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will sit
in my library, in my nightcap and powdering
gown, and give as much trouble as I can; or,
perhaps, I may defer it till Kitty runs away.”
“I am not going to run away, papa,” said
Kitty fretfully. “If I should ever go to Brighton,
I would behave better than Lydia.”
“You go to Brighton. I would not trust you
so near it as Eastbourne for fifty pounds! No,
Kitty, I have at last learnt to be cautious, and
you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever
to enter into my house again, nor even to pass
through the village. Balls will be absolutely
prohibited, unless you stand up with one of
your sisters. And you are never to stir out of
doors till you can prove that you have spent
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Pride and Prejudice
ten minutes of every day in a rational manner.”
Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry.
“Well, well,” said he, “do not make yourself
unhappy. If you are a good girl for the next ten
years, I will take you to a review at the end of
them.”
Chapter 49
Two days after Mr. Bennet’s return, as Jane
and Elizabeth were walking together in the
shrubbery behind the house, they saw the
housekeeper coming towards them, and, concluding that she came to call them to their
mother, went forward to meet her; but, instead of the expected summons, when they approached her, she said to Miss Bennet, “I beg
your pardon, madam, for interrupting you,
but I was in hopes you might have got some
good news from town, so I took the liberty of
coming to ask.”
“What do you mean, Hill? We have heard
nothing from town.”
“Dear madam,” cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, “don’t you know there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He
has been here this half-hour, and master has
had a letter.”
Away ran the girls, too eager to get in
to have time for speech. They ran through
the vestibule into the breakfast-room; from
thence to the library; their father was in neither; and they were on the point of seeking
him upstairs with their mother, when they
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Pride and Prejudice
were met by the butler, who said:
“If you are looking for my master, ma’am,
he is walking towards the little copse.”
Upon this information, they instantly
passed through the hall once more, and ran
across the lawn after their father, who was deliberately pursuing his way towards a small
wood on one side of the paddock.
Jane, who was not so light nor so much in
the habit of running as Elizabeth, soon lagged
behind, while her sister, panting for breath,
came up with him, and eagerly cried out:
“Oh, papa, what news—what news? Have
you heard from my uncle?”
“Yes I have had a letter from him by express.”
“Well, and what news does it bring—good
or bad?”
“What is there of good to be expected?” said
he, taking the letter from his pocket. “But perhaps you would like to read it.”
Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his
hand. Jane now came up.
“Read it aloud,” said their father, “for I
hardly know myself what it is about.”
“Gracechurch Street,
“Monday, August 2.
“M Y DEAR BROTHER ,
“At last I am able to send you
some tidings of my niece, and such
as, upon the whole, I hope it will
give you satisfaction. Soon after
you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what
Chapter 49
427
part of London they were. The particulars I reserve till we meet; it
is enough to know they are discovered. I have seen them both—”
“Then it is as I always hoped,” cried Jane;
“they are married!”
Elizabeth read on:
“I have seen them both. They are
not married, nor can I find there
was any intention of being so; but
if you are willing to perform the engagements which I have ventured
to make on your side, I hope it will
not be long before they are. All that
is required of you is, to assure to
your daughter, by settlement, her
equal share of the five thousand
pounds secured among your children after the decease of yourself
and my sister; and, moreover, to
enter into an engagement of allowing her, during your life, one hundred pounds per annum. These
are conditions which, considering
everything, I had no hesitation in
complying with, as far as I thought
myself privileged, for you. I shall
send this by express, that no time
may be lost in bringing me your
answer. You will easily comprehend, from these particulars, that
Mr. Wickham’s circumstances are
not so hopeless as they are generally believed to be. The world
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Pride and Prejudice
has been deceived in that respect;
and I am happy to say there will
be some little money, even when
all his debts are discharged, to settle on my niece, in addition to her
own fortune. If, as I conclude will
be the case, you send me full powers to act in your name throughout the whole of this business, I
will immediately give directions to
Haggerston for preparing a proper
settlement. There will not be the
smallest occasion for your coming
to town again; therefore stay quiet
at Longbourn, and depend on my
diligence and care. Send back your
answer as fast as you can, and
be careful to write explicitly. We
have judged it best that my niece
should be married from this house,
of which I hope you will approve.
She comes to us to-day. I shall
write again as soon as anything
more is determined on. Yours, etc.,
“E DW . G ARDINER.”
“Is it possible?” cried Elizabeth, when she had
finished. “Can it be possible that he will
marry her?”
“Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as
we thought him,” said her sister. “My dear
father, I congratulate you.”
“And have you answered the letter?” cried
Elizabeth.
“No; but it must be done soon.”
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429
Most earnestly did she then entreat him to
lose no more time before he wrote.
“Oh! my dear father,” she cried, “come back
and write immediately. Consider how important every moment is in such a case.”
“Let me write for you,” said Jane, “if you
dislike the trouble yourself.”
“I dislike it very much,” he replied; “but it
must be done.”
And so saying, he turned back with them,
and walked towards the house.
“And may I ask—” said Elizabeth; “but the
terms, I suppose, must be complied with.”
“Complied with! I am only ashamed of his
asking so little.”
“And they must marry! Yet he is such a
man!”
“Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there are two things
that I want very much to know; one is, how
much money your uncle has laid down to bring
it about; and the other, how am I ever to pay
him.”
“Money! My uncle!” cried Jane, “what do
you mean, sir?”
“I mean, that no man in his senses would
marry Lydia on so slight a temptation as one
hundred a year during my life, and fifty after
I am gone.”
“That is very true,” said Elizabeth; “though
it had not occurred to me before. His debts to
be discharged, and something still to remain!
Oh! it must be my uncle’s doings! Generous,
good man, I am afraid he has distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this.”
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Pride and Prejudice
“No,” said her father; “Wickham’s a fool
if he takes her with a farthing less than ten
thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think
so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship.”
“Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid!
How is half such a sum to be repaid?”
Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of
them, deep in thought, continued silent till
they reached the house. Their father then
went on to the library to write, and the girls
walked into the breakfast-room.
“And they are really to be married!” cried
Elizabeth, as soon as they were by themselves. “How strange this is! And for this we
are to be thankful. That they should marry,
small as is their chance of happiness, and
wretched as is his character, we are forced to
rejoice. Oh, Lydia!”
“I comfort myself with thinking,” replied
Jane, “that he certainly would not marry Lydia if he had not a real regard for her. Though
our kind uncle has done something towards
clearing him, I cannot believe that ten thousand pounds, or anything like it, has been advanced. He has children of his own, and may
have more. How could he spare half ten thousand pounds?”
“If he were ever able to learn what Wickham’s debts have been,” said Elizabeth, “and
how much is settled on his side on our sister,
we shall exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has
done for them, because Wickham has not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle
and aunt can never be requited. Their tak-
Chapter 49
431
ing her home, and affording her their personal
protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice
to her advantage as years of gratitude cannot
enough acknowledge. By this time she is actually with them! If such goodness does not
make her miserable now, she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her,
when she first sees my aunt!”
“We must endeavour to forget all that has
passed on either side,” said Jane: “I hope and
trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to
marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is
come to a right way of thinking. Their mutual
affection will steady them; and I flatter myself
they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in time make their past
imprudence forgotten.”
“Their conduct has been such,” replied
Elizabeth, “as neither you, nor I, nor anybody
can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it.”
It now occurred to the girls that their
mother was in all likelihood perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to
the library, therefore, and asked their father
whether he would not wish them to make it
known to her. He was writing and, without
raising his head, coolly replied:
“Just as you please.”
“May we take my uncle’s letter to read to
her?”
“Take whatever you like, and get away.”
Elizabeth took the letter from his writingtable, and they went upstairs together. Mary
and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one
communication would, therefore, do for all.
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Pride and Prejudice
After a slight preparation for good news, the
letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could
hardly contain herself. As soon as Jane had
read Mr. Gardiner’s hope of Lydia’s being soon
married, her joy burst forth, and every following sentence added to its exuberance. She was
now in an irritation as violent from delight,
as she had ever been fidgety from alarm and
vexation. To know that her daughter would
be married was enough. She was disturbed
by no fear for her felicity, nor humbled by any
remembrance of her misconduct.
“My dear, dear Lydia!” she cried. “This is
delightful indeed! She will be married! I shall
see her again! She will be married at sixteen!
My good, kind brother! I knew how it would
be. I knew he would manage everything! How
I long to see her! and to see dear Wickham
too! But the clothes, the wedding clothes! I
will write to my sister Gardiner about them
directly. Lizzy, my dear, run down to your father, and ask him how much he will give her.
Stay, stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell, Kitty,
for Hill. I will put on my things in a moment.
My dear, dear Lydia! How merry we shall be
together when we meet!”
Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give
some relief to the violence of these transports,
by leading her thoughts to the obligations
which Mr. Gardiner’s behaviour laid them all
under.
“For we must attribute this happy conclusion,” she added, “in a great measure to
his kindness. We are persuaded that he has
pledged himself to assist Mr. Wickham with
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433
money.”
“Well,” cried her mother, “it is all very
right; who should do it but her own uncle?
If he had not had a family of his own, I and
my children must have had all his money, you
know; and it is the first time we have ever
had anything from him, except a few presents.
Well! I am so happy! In a short time I shall
have a daughter married. Mrs. Wickham!
How well it sounds! And she was only sixteen
last June. My dear Jane, I am in such a flutter, that I am sure I can’t write; so I will dictate, and you write for me. We will settle with
your father about the money afterwards; but
the things should be ordered immediately.”
She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin, and cambric, and would
shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders, had not Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her to wait till her father was
at leisure to be consulted. One day’s delay, she
observed, would be of small importance; and
her mother was too happy to be quite so obstinate as usual. Other schemes, too, came into
her head.
“I will go to Meryton,” said she, “as soon
as I am dressed, and tell the good, good news
to my sister Philips. And as I come back, I
can call on Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty,
run down and order the carriage. An airing
would do me a great deal of good, I am sure.
Girls, can I do anything for you in Meryton?
Oh! Here comes Hill! My dear Hill, have you
heard the good news? Miss Lydia is going to
be married; and you shall all have a bowl of
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Pride and Prejudice
punch to make merry at her wedding.”
Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her
joy. Elizabeth received her congratulations
amongst the rest, and then, sick of this folly,
took refuge in her own room, that she might
think with freedom.
Poor Lydia’s situation must, at best, be bad
enough; but that it was no worse, she had
need to be thankful. She felt it so; and though,
in looking forward, neither rational happiness nor worldly prosperity could be justly expected for her sister, in looking back to what
they had feared, only two hours ago, she felt
all the advantages of what they had gained.
Chapter 50
Mr. Bennet had very often wished before this
period of his life that, instead of spending his
whole income, he had laid by an annual sum
for the better provision of his children, and of
his wife, if she survived him. He now wished it
more than ever. Had he done his duty in that
respect, Lydia need not have been indebted
to her uncle for whatever of honour or credit
could now be purchased for her. The satisfaction of prevailing on one of the most worthless
young men in Great Britain to be her husband
might then have rested in its proper place.
He was seriously concerned that a cause
of so little advantage to anyone should be forwarded at the sole expense of his brother-inlaw, and he was determined, if possible, to find
out the extent of his assistance, and to discharge the obligation as soon as he could.
When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be perfectly useless, for, of
course, they were to have a son. The son was
to join in cutting off the entail, as soon as he
should be of age, and the widow and younger
children would by that means be provided
for. Five daughters successively entered the
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world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs.
Bennet, for many years after Lydia’s birth,
had been certain that he would. This event
had at last been despaired of, but it was then
too late to be saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn
for economy, and her husband’s love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding
their income.
Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs. Bennet and the children. But in what proportions it should be
divided amongst the latter depended on the
will of the parents. This was one point, with
regard to Lydia, at least, which was now to
be settled, and Mr. Bennet could have no
hesitation in acceding to the proposal before
him. In terms of grateful acknowledgment for
the kindness of his brother, though expressed
most concisely, he then delivered on paper his
perfect approbation of all that was done, and
his willingness to fulfil the engagements that
had been made for him. He had never before
supposed that, could Wickham be prevailed
on to marry his daughter, it would be done
with so little inconvenience to himself as by
the present arrangement. He would scarcely
be ten pounds a year the loser by the hundred that was to be paid them; for, what with
her board and pocket allowance, and the continual presents in money which passed to her
through her mother’s hands, Lydia’s expenses
had been very little within that sum.
That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was another very welcome surprise; for his wish at present was to
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437
have as little trouble in the business as possible. When the first transports of rage which
had produced his activity in seeking her were
over, he naturally returned to all his former
indolence. His letter was soon dispatched; for,
though dilatory in undertaking business, he
was quick in its execution. He begged to know
further particulars of what he was indebted
to his brother, but was too angry with Lydia
to send any message to her.
The good news spread quickly through the
house, and with proportionate speed through
the neighbourhood. It was borne in the latter
with decent philosophy. To be sure, it would
have been more for the advantage of conversation had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the
town; or, as the happiest alternative, been secluded from the world, in some distant farmhouse. But there was much to be talked of
in marrying her; and the good-natured wishes
for her well-doing which had proceeded before
from all the spiteful old ladies in Meryton lost
but a little of their spirit in this change of circumstances, because with such an husband
her misery was considered certain.
It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had
been downstairs; but on this happy day she
again took her seat at the head of her table,
and in spirits oppressively high. No sentiment
of shame gave a damp to her triumph. The
marriage of a daughter, which had been the
first object of her wishes since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of accomplishment,
and her thoughts and her words ran wholly
on those attendants of elegant nuptials, fine
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Pride and Prejudice
muslins, new carriages, and servants. She
was busily searching through the neighbourhood for a proper situation for her daughter, and, without knowing or considering what
their income might be, rejected many as deficient in size and importance.
“Haye Park might do,” said she, “if the
Gouldings could quit it—or the great house at
Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger; but
Ashworth is too far off! I could not bear to
have her ten miles from me; and as for Pulvis
Lodge, the attics are dreadful.”
Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while the servants remained.
But when they had withdrawn, he said to her:
“Mrs. Bennet, before you take any or all of
these houses for your son and daughter, let
us come to a right understanding. Into one
house in this neighbourhood they shall never
have admittance. I will not encourage the impudence of either, by receiving them at Longbourn.”
A long dispute followed this declaration;
but Mr. Bennet was firm. It soon led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with amazement and horror, that her husband would not
advance a guinea to buy clothes for his daughter. He protested that she should receive from
him no mark of affection whatever on the occasion. Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend
it. That his anger could be carried to such a
point of inconceivable resentment as to refuse
his daughter a privilege without which her
marriage would scarcely seem valid, exceeded
all she could believe possible. She was more
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439
alive to the disgrace which her want of new
clothes must reflect on her daughter’s nuptials, than to any sense of shame at her eloping and living with Wickham a fortnight before they took place.
Elizabeth was now most heartily sorry
that she had, from the distress of the moment,
been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted with
their fears for her sister; for since her marriage would so shortly give the proper termination to the elopement, they might hope to
conceal its unfavourable beginning from all
those who were not immediately on the spot.
She had no fear of its spreading farther
through his means. There were few people
on whose secrecy she would have more confidently depended; but, at the same time,
there was no one whose knowledge of a
sister’s frailty would have mortified her so
much—not, however, from any fear of disadvantage from it individually to herself, for,
at any rate, there seemed a gulf impassable
between them. Had Lydia’s marriage been
concluded on the most honourable terms, it
was not to be supposed that Mr. Darcy would
connect himself with a family where, to every other objection, would now be added an
alliance and relationship of the nearest kind
with a man whom he so justly scorned.
From such a connection she could not wonder that he would shrink. The wish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself of his feeling in Derbyshire, could not in
rational expectation survive such a blow as
this. She was humbled, she was grieved; she
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Pride and Prejudice
repented, though she hardly knew of what.
She became jealous of his esteem, when she
could no longer hope to be benefited by it. She
wanted to hear of him, when there seemed
the least chance of gaining intelligence. She
was convinced that she could have been happy
with him, when it was no longer likely they
should meet.
What a triumph for him, as she often
thought, could he know that the proposals
which she had proudly spurned only four
months ago, would now have been most gladly
and gratefully received! He was as generous,
she doubted not, as the most generous of his
sex; but while he was mortal, there must be a
triumph.
She began now to comprehend that he was
exactly the man who, in disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and temper, though unlike her own, would
have answered all her wishes. It was an
union that must have been to the advantage
of both; by her ease and liveliness, his mind
might have been softened, his manners improved; and from his judgement, information,
and knowledge of the world, she must have
received benefit of greater importance.
But no such happy marriage could now
teach the admiring multitude what connubial
felicity really was. An union of a different
tendency, and precluding the possibility of the
other, was soon to be formed in their family.
How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable independence, she could
not imagine. But how little of permanent hap-
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441
piness could belong to a couple who were only
brought together because their passions were
stronger than their virtue, she could easily
conjecture.
Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his
brother. To Mr. Bennet’s acknowledgments
he briefly replied, with assurance of his eagerness to promote the welfare of any of his
family; and concluded with entreaties that
the subject might never be mentioned to him
again. The principal purport of his letter was
to inform them that Mr. Wickham had resolved on quitting the militia.
“It was greatly my wish that he
should do so,” he added, “as soon
as his marriage was fixed on. And
I think you will agree with me, in
considering the removal from that
corps as highly advisable, both on
his account and my niece’s. It is
Mr. Wickham’s intention to go into
the regulars; and among his former friends, there are still some
who are able and willing to assist him in the army. He has the
promise of an ensigncy in General
——’s regiment, now quartered in
the North. It is an advantage to
have it so far from this part of
the kingdom. He promises fairly;
and I hope among different people,
where they may each have a character to preserve, they will both
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Pride and Prejudice
be more prudent. I have written
to Colonel Forster, to inform him
of our present arrangements, and
to request that he will satisfy the
various creditors of Mr. Wickham
in and near Brighton, with assurances of speedy payment, for which
I have pledged myself. And will you
give yourself the trouble of carrying similar assurances to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I shall
subjoin a list according to his information? He has given in all his
debts; I hope at least he has not deceived us. Haggerston has our directions, and all will be completed
in a week. They will then join
his regiment, unless they are first
invited to Longbourn; and I understand from Mrs. Gardiner, that
my niece is very desirous of seeing
you all before she leaves the South.
She is well, and begs to be dutifully remembered to you and your
mother.—Yours, etc.,
“E. G ARDINER.”
Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the
advantages of Wickham’s removal from the
——shire as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do.
But Mrs. Bennet was not so well pleased with
it. Lydia’s being settled in the North, just
when she had expected most pleasure and
pride in her company, for she had by no means
given up her plan of their residing in Hert-
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443
fordshire, was a severe disappointment; and,
besides, it was such a pity that Lydia should
be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted with everybody, and had so many
favourites.
“She is so fond of Mrs. Forster,” said she, “it
will be quite shocking to send her away! And
there are several of the young men, too, that
she likes very much. The officers may not be
so pleasant in General ——’s regiment.”
His daughter’s request, for such it might
be considered, of being admitted into her family again before she set off for the North, received at first an absolute negative. But Jane
and Elizabeth, who agreed in wishing, for the
sake of their sister’s feelings and consequence,
that she should be noticed on her marriage by
her parents, urged him so earnestly yet so rationally and so mildly, to receive her and her
husband at Longbourn, as soon as they were
married, that he was prevailed on to think as
they thought, and act as they wished. And
their mother had the satisfaction of knowing that she would be able to show her married daughter in the neighbourhood before she
was banished to the North. When Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore, he
sent his permission for them to come; and it
was settled, that as soon as the ceremony was
over, they should proceed to Longbourn. Elizabeth was surprised, however, that Wickham
should consent to such a scheme, and had she
consulted only her own inclination, any meeting with him would have been the last object
of her wishes.
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Chapter 51
Their sister’s wedding day arrived; and Jane
and Elizabeth felt for her probably more than
she felt for herself. The carriage was sent to
meet them at ——, and they were to return in
it by dinner-time. Their arrival was dreaded
by the elder Miss Bennets, and Jane more especially, who gave Lydia the feelings which
would have attended herself, had she been the
culprit, and was wretched in the thought of
what her sister must endure.
They came. The family were assembled in
the breakfast room to receive them. Smiles
decked the face of Mrs. Bennet as the carriage drove up to the door; her husband looked
impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed,
anxious, uneasy.
Lydia’s voice was heard in the vestibule;
the door was thrown open, and she ran into
the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and welcomed her with rapture;
gave her hand, with an affectionate smile, to
Wickham, who followed his lady; and wished
them both joy with an alacrity which shewed
no doubt of their happiness.
Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom
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Pride and Prejudice
they then turned, was not quite so cordial. His
countenance rather gained in austerity; and
he scarcely opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple, indeed, was enough
to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and
even Miss Bennet was shocked. Lydia was
Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy,
and fearless. She turned from sister to sister,
demanding their congratulations; and when
at length they all sat down, looked eagerly
round the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and observed, with a laugh, that
it was a great while since she had been there.
Wickham was not at all more distressed
than herself, but his manners were always
so pleasing, that had his character and his
marriage been exactly what they ought, his
smiles and his easy address, while he claimed
their relationship, would have delighted them
all. Elizabeth had not before believed him
quite equal to such assurance; but she sat
down, resolving within herself to draw no limits in future to the impudence of an impudent
man. She blushed, and Jane blushed; but the
cheeks of the two who caused their confusion
suffered no variation of colour.
There was no want of discourse. The bride
and her mother could neither of them talk
fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to
sit near Elizabeth, began inquiring after his
acquaintance in that neighbourhood, with a
good humoured ease which she felt very unable to equal in her replies. They seemed each
of them to have the happiest memories in the
world. Nothing of the past was recollected
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447
with pain; and Lydia led voluntarily to subjects which her sisters would not have alluded
to for the world.
“Only think of its being three months,”
she cried, “since I went away; it seems but a
fortnight I declare; and yet there have been
things enough happened in the time. Good
gracious! when I went away, I am sure I had
no more idea of being married till I came back
again! though I thought it would be very good
fun if I was.”
Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was
distressed. Elizabeth looked expressively at
Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw
any thing of which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, “Oh! mamma, do the people hereabouts know I am married to-day? I
was afraid they might not; and we overtook
William Goulding in his curricle, so I was determined he should know it, and so I let down
the side-glass next to him, and took off my
glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that he might see the ring, and
then I bowed and smiled like any thing.”
Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got
up, and ran out of the room; and returned no
more, till she heard them passing through the
hall to the dining parlour. She then joined
them soon enough to see Lydia, with anxious
parade, walk up to her mother’s right hand,
and hear her say to her eldest sister, “Ah!
Jane, I take your place now, and you must go
lower, because I am a married woman.”
It was not to be supposed that time would
give Lydia that embarrassment from which
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Pride and Prejudice
she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease
and good spirits increased. She longed to see
Mrs. Phillips, the Lucases, and all their other
neighbours, and to hear herself called “Mrs.
Wickham” by each of them; and in the mean
time, she went after dinner to show her ring,
and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and
the two housemaids.
“Well, mamma,” said she, when they were
all returned to the breakfast room, “and what
do you think of my husband? Is not he a
charming man? I am sure my sisters must all
envy me. I only hope they may have half my
good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That
is the place to get husbands. What a pity it is,
mamma, we did not all go.”
“Very true; and if I had my will, we should.
But my dear Lydia, I don’t at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?”
“Oh, lord! yes;—there is nothing in that. I
shall like it of all things. You and papa, and
my sisters, must come down and see us. We
shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare
say there will be some balls, and I will take
care to get good partners for them all.”
“I should like it beyond any thing!” said her
mother.
“And then when you go away, you may
leave one or two of my sisters behind you; and
I dare say I shall get husbands for them before
the winter is over.”
“I thank you for my share of the favour,”
said Elizabeth; “but I do not particularly like
your way of getting husbands.”
Their visitors were not to remain above ten
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449
days with them. Mr. Wickham had received
his commission before he left London, and he
was to join his regiment at the end of a fortnight.
No one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that
their stay would be so short; and she made
the most of the time by visiting about with her
daughter, and having very frequent parties at
home. These parties were acceptable to all; to
avoid a family circle was even more desirable
to such as did think, than such as did not.
Wickham’s affection for Lydia was just
what Elizabeth had expected to find it; not
equal to Lydia’s for him. She had scarcely
needed her present observation to be satisfied,
from the reason of things, that their elopement had been brought on by the strength of
her love, rather than by his; and she would
have wondered why, without violently caring
for her, he chose to elope with her at all, had
she not felt certain that his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances;
and if that were the case, he was not the
young man to resist an opportunity of having
a companion.
Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was
her dear Wickham on every occasion; no one
was to be put in competition with him. He
did every thing best in the world; and she was
sure he would kill more birds on the first of
September, than any body else in the country.
One morning, soon after their arrival, as
she was sitting with her two elder sisters, she
said to Elizabeth:
“Lizzy, I never gave you an account of my
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Pride and Prejudice
wedding, I believe. You were not by, when I
told mamma and the others all about it. Are
not you curious to hear how it was managed?”
“No really,” replied Elizabeth; “I think
there cannot be too little said on the subject.”
“La! You are so strange! But I must tell
you how it went off. We were married, you
know, at St. Clement’s, because Wickham’s
lodgings were in that parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven
o’clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go
together; and the others were to meet us at
the church. Well, Monday morning came, and
I was in such a fuss! I was so afraid, you know,
that something would happen to put it off, and
then I should have gone quite distracted. And
there was my aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if she
was reading a sermon. However, I did not
hear above one word in ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I
longed to know whether he would be married
in his blue coat.”
“Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as
usual; I thought it would never be over; for,
by the bye, you are to understand, that my
uncle and aunt were horrid unpleasant all the
time I was with them. If you’ll believe me, I
did not once put my foot out of doors, though
I was there a fortnight. Not one party, or
scheme, or any thing. To be sure London was
rather thin, but, however, the Little Theatre
was open. Well, and so just as the carriage
came to the door, my uncle was called away
upon business to that horrid man Mr. Stone.
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451
And then, you know, when once they get together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so
frightened I did not know what to do, for my
uncle was to give me away; and if we were beyond the hour, we could not be married all day.
But, luckily, he came back again in ten minutes’ time, and then we all set out. However, I
recollected afterwards that if he had been prevented going, the wedding need not be put off,
for Mr. Darcy might have done as well.”
“Mr. Darcy!” repeated Elizabeth, in utter
amazement.
“Oh, yes!—he was to come there with
Wickham, you know. But gracious me! I quite
forgot! I ought not to have said a word about
it. I promised them so faithfully! What will
Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!”
“If it was to be secret,” said Jane, “say not
another word on the subject. You may depend
upon my seeking no further.”
“Oh! certainly,” said Elizabeth, though
burning with curiosity; “we will ask you no
questions.”
“Thank you,” said Lydia, “for if you did, I
should certainly tell you all, and then Wickham would be angry.”
On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth
was forced to put it out of her power, by running away.
But to live in ignorance on such a point was
impossible; or at least it was impossible not
to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at
her sister’s wedding. It was exactly a scene,
and exactly among people, where he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to
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Pride and Prejudice
go. Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid
and wild, hurried into her brain; but she was
satisfied with none. Those that best pleased
her, as placing his conduct in the noblest light,
seemed most improbable. She could not bear
such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of
paper, wrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what Lydia had dropt,
if it were compatible with the secrecy which
had been intended.
“You may readily comprehend,” she added,
“what my curiosity must be to know how a
person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively speaking) a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such a
time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it—unless it is, for very cogent reasons,
to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to
think necessary; and then I must endeavour
to be satisfied with ignorance.”
“Not that I shall, though,” she added to
herself, as she finished the letter; “and my
dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable manner, I shall certainly be reduced
to tricks and stratagems to find it out.”
Jane’s delicate sense of honour would not
allow her to speak to Elizabeth privately of
what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was glad
of it;—till it appeared whether her inquiries
would receive any satisfaction, she had rather
be without a confidante.
Chapter 52
Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an
answer to her letter as soon as she possibly
could. She was no sooner in possession of
it than, hurrying into the little copse, where
she was least likely to be interrupted, she sat
down on one of the benches and prepared to be
happy; for the length of the letter convinced
her that it did not contain a denial.
“Gracechurch street,
“Sept. 6.
“M Y D EAR N IECE ,
“I have just received your letter,
and shall devote this whole morning to answering it, as I foresee
that a little writing will not comprise what I have to tell you. I
must confess myself surprised by
your application; I did not expect
it from you. Don’t think me angry,
however, for I only mean to let you
know that I had not imagined such
inquiries to be necessary on your
side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my impertinence.
Your uncle is as much surprised as
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Pride and Prejudice
I am—and nothing but the belief of
your being a party concerned would
have allowed him to act as he has
done. But if you are really innocent
and ignorant, I must be more explicit.
“On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most unexpected visitor.
Mr. Darcy called, and was shut up
with him several hours. It was all
over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so dreadfully racked
as your’s seems to have been. He
came to tell Mr. Gardiner that he
had found out where your sister
and Mr. Wickham were, and that
he had seen and talked with them
both; Wickham repeatedly, Lydia
once. From what I can collect, he
left Derbyshire only one day after
ourselves, and came to town with
the resolution of hunting for them.
The motive professed was his conviction of its being owing to himself that Wickham’s worthlessness
had not been so well known as to
make it impossible for any young
woman of character to love or confide in him. He generously imputed
the whole to his mistaken pride,
and confessed that he had before
thought it beneath him to lay his
private actions open to the world.
His character was to speak for it-
Chapter 52
self. He called it, therefore, his
duty to step forward, and endeavour to remedy an evil which had
been brought on by himself. If he
had another motive, I am sure it
would never disgrace him. He had
been some days in town, before he
was able to discover them; but he
had something to direct his search,
which was more than we had; and
the consciousness of this was another reason for his resolving to follow us.
“There is a lady, it seems, a
Mrs. Younge, who was some time
ago governess to Miss Darcy, and
was dismissed from her charge
on some cause of disapprobation,
though he did not say what. She
then took a large house in Edwardstreet, and has since maintained
herself by letting lodgings. This
Mrs. Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham;
and he went to her for intelligence
of him as soon as he got to town.
But it was two or three days before he could get from her what he
wanted. She would not betray her
trust, I suppose, without bribery
and corruption, for she really did
know where her friend was to be
found. Wickham indeed had gone
to her on their first arrival in London, and had she been able to re-
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Pride and Prejudice
ceive them into her house, they
would have taken up their abode
with her. At length, however, our
kind friend procured the wishedfor direction. They were in ——
street. He saw Wickham, and afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia.
His first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade
her to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her
friends as soon as they could be
prevailed on to receive her, offering
his assistance, as far as it would
go. But he found Lydia absolutely
resolved on remaining where she
was. She cared for none of her
friends; she wanted no help of his;
she would not hear of leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be
married some time or other, and it
did not much signify when. Since
such were her feelings, it only remained, he thought, to secure and
expedite a marriage, which, in his
very first conversation with Wickham, he easily learnt had never
been his design.
He confessed
himself obliged to leave the regiment, on account of some debts of
honour, which were very pressing;
and scrupled not to lay all the illconsequences of Lydia’s flight on
her own folly alone. He meant
to resign his commission immedi-
Chapter 52
ately; and as to his future situation, he could conjecture very little
about it. He must go somewhere,
but he did not know where, and
he knew he should have nothing to
live on.
“Mr. Darcy asked him why he
had not married your sister at once.
Though Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich, he would
have been able to do something for
him, and his situation must have
been benefited by marriage. But
he found, in reply to this question, that Wickham still cherished
the hope of more effectually making his fortune by marriage in some
other country. Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely
to be proof against the temptation
of immediate relief.
“They met several times, for
there was much to be discussed.
Wickham of course wanted more
than he could get; but at length was
reduced to be reasonable.
“Every thing being settled between them, Mr. Darcy’s next step
was to make your uncle acquainted
with it, and he first called in
Gracechurch street the evening before I came home. But Mr. Gardiner could not be seen, and Mr.
Darcy found, on further inquiry,
that your father was still with him,
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Pride and Prejudice
but would quit town the next morning. He did not judge your father
to be a person whom he could so
properly consult as your uncle, and
therefore readily postponed seeing
him till after the departure of the
former. He did not leave his name,
and till the next day it was only
known that a gentleman had called
on business.
“On Saturday he came again.
Your father was gone, your uncle
at home, and, as I said before, they
had a great deal of talk together.
“They met again on Sunday, and
then I saw him too. It was not
all settled before Monday: as soon
as it was, the express was sent
off to Longbourn. But our visitor
was very obstinate. I fancy, Lizzy,
that obstinacy is the real defect of
his character, after all. He has
been accused of many faults at different times, but this is the true
one. Nothing was to be done that
he did not do himself; though I
am sure (and I do not speak it to
be thanked, therefore say nothing
about it), your uncle would most
readily have settled the whole.
“They battled it together for a
long time, which was more than
either the gentleman or lady concerned in it deserved. But at last
your uncle was forced to yield, and
Chapter 52
instead of being allowed to be of
use to his niece, was forced to put
up with only having the probable credit of it, which went sorely
against the grain; and I really believe your letter this morning gave
him great pleasure, because it required an explanation that would
rob him of his borrowed feathers,
and give the praise where it was
due. But, Lizzy, this must go no farther than yourself, or Jane at most.
“You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been done for the
young people. His debts are to
be paid, amounting, I believe, to
considerably more than a thousand pounds, another thousand
in addition to her own settled
upon her, and his commission purchased. The reason why all this
was to be done by him alone, was
such as I have given above. It was
owing to him, to his reserve and
want of proper consideration, that
Wickham’s character had been so
misunderstood, and consequently
that he had been received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was
some truth in this; though I doubt
whether his reserve, or anybody’s
reserve, can be answerable for the
event. But in spite of all this fine
talking, my dear Lizzy, you may
rest perfectly assured that your un-
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cle would never have yielded, if we
had not given him credit for another interest in the affair.
“When all this was resolved on,
he returned again to his friends,
who were still staying at Pemberley; but it was agreed that he
should be in London once more
when the wedding took place, and
all money matters were then to receive the last finish.
“I believe I have now told you
every thing. It is a relation which
you tell me is to give you great surprise; I hope at least it will not
afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to us; and Wickham had
constant admission to the house.
He was exactly what he had been,
when I knew him in Hertfordshire;
but I would not tell you how little
I was satisfied with her behaviour
while she staid with us, if I had
not perceived, by Jane’s letter last
Wednesday, that her conduct on
coming home was exactly of a piece
with it, and therefore what I now
tell you can give you no fresh pain.
I talked to her repeatedly in the
most serious manner, representing
to her all the wickedness of what
she had done, and all the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If she heard me, it was by good
luck, for I am sure she did not lis-
Chapter 52
ten. I was sometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected my
dear Elizabeth and Jane, and for
their sakes had patience with her.
“Mr. Darcy was punctual in his
return, and as Lydia informed you,
attended the wedding. He dined
with us the next day, and was to
leave town again on Wednesday or
Thursday. Will you be very angry
with me, my dear Lizzy, if I take
this opportunity of saying (what I
was never bold enough to say before) how much I like him. His behaviour to us has, in every respect,
been as pleasing as when we were
in Derbyshire. His understanding and opinions all please me; he
wants nothing but a little more
liveliness, and that, if he marry
prudently, his wife may teach him.
I thought him very sly;—he hardly
ever mentioned your name. But
slyness seems the fashion.
“Pray forgive me if I have been
very presuming, or at least do not
punish me so far as to exclude me
from P. I shall never be quite happy
till I have been all round the park.
A low phaeton, with a nice little
pair of ponies, would be the very
thing.
“But I must write no more. The
children have been wanting me this
half hour.
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Pride and Prejudice
“Yours, very sincerely,
“M. G ARDINER.”
The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth
into a flutter of spirits, in which it was difficult
to determine whether pleasure or pain bore
the greatest share. The vague and unsettled
suspicions which uncertainty had produced of
what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister’s match, which she had feared
to encourage as an exertion of goodness too
great to be probable, and at the same time
dreaded to be just, from the pain of obligation,
were proved beyond their greatest extent to
be true! He had followed them purposely to
town, he had taken on himself all the trouble and mortification attendant on such a research; in which supplication had been necessary to a woman whom he must abominate
and despise, and where he was reduced to
meet, frequently meet, reason with, persuade,
and finally bribe, the man whom he always
most wished to avoid, and whose very name
it was punishment to him to pronounce. He
had done all this for a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her heart did whisper that he had done it for her. But it was a
hope shortly checked by other considerations,
and she soon felt that even her vanity was
insufficient, when required to depend on his
affection for her—for a woman who had already refused him—as able to overcome a sentiment so natural as abhorrence against relationship with Wickham. Brother-in-law of
Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt
Chapter 52
463
from the connection. He had, to be sure, done
much. She was ashamed to think how much.
But he had given a reason for his interference, which asked no extraordinary stretch of
belief. It was reasonable that he should feel
he had been wrong; he had liberality, and he
had the means of exercising it; and though
she would not place herself as his principal inducement, she could, perhaps, believe that remaining partiality for her might assist his endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind
must be materially concerned. It was painful,
exceedingly painful, to know that they were
under obligations to a person who could never
receive a return. They owed the restoration
of Lydia, her character, every thing, to him.
Oh! how heartily did she grieve over every ungracious sensation she had ever encouraged,
every saucy speech she had ever directed towards him. For herself she was humbled; but
she was proud of him. Proud that in a cause
of compassion and honour, he had been able
to get the better of himself. She read over
her aunt’s commendation of him again and
again. It was hardly enough; but it pleased
her. She was even sensible of some pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding
how steadfastly both she and her uncle had
been persuaded that affection and confidence
subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself.
She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some one’s approach; and before
she could strike into another path, she was
overtaken by Wickham.
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Pride and Prejudice
“I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?” said he, as he joined her.
“You certainly do,” she replied with a smile;
“but it does not follow that the interruption
must be unwelcome.”
“I should be sorry indeed, if it were. We
were always good friends; and now we are better.”
“True. Are the others coming out?”
“I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are
going in the carriage to Meryton. And so, my
dear sister, I find, from our uncle and aunt,
that you have actually seen Pemberley.”
She replied in the affirmative.
“I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I
believe it would be too much for me, or else
I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And
you saw the old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor
Reynolds, she was always very fond of me.
But of course she did not mention my name
to you.”
“Yes, she did.”
“And what did she say?”
“That you were gone into the army, and
she was afraid had—not turned out well. At
such a distance as that, you know, things are
strangely misrepresented.”
“Certainly,” he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had silenced him; but he soon
afterwards said:
“I was surprised to see Darcy in town last
month. We passed each other several times. I
wonder what he can be doing there.”
“Perhaps preparing for his marriage with
Miss de Bourgh,” said Elizabeth. “It must be
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465
something particular, to take him there at this
time of year.”
“Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you
were at Lambton? I thought I understood
from the Gardiners that you had.”
“Yes; he introduced us to his sister.”
“And do you like her?”
“Very much.”
“I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year or two.
When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad you liked her. I hope she
will turn out well.”
“I dare say she will; she has got over the
most trying age.”
“Did you go by the village of Kympton?”
“I do not recollect that we did.”
“I mention it, because it is the living which
I ought to have had. A most delightful
place!—Excellent Parsonage House! It would
have suited me in every respect.”
“How should you have liked making sermons?”
“Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty, and the exertion
would soon have been nothing. One ought not
to repine;—but, to be sure, it would have been
such a thing for me! The quiet, the retirement of such a life would have answered all
my ideas of happiness! But it was not to be.
Did you ever hear Darcy mention the circumstance, when you were in Kent?”
“I have heard from authority, which I
thought as good, that it was left you conditionally only, and at the will of the present pa-
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Pride and Prejudice
tron.”
“You have. Yes, there was something in
that; I told you so from the first, you may remember.”
“I did hear, too, that there was a time,
when sermon-making was not so palatable to
you as it seems to be at present; that you actually declared your resolution of never taking
orders, and that the business had been compromised accordingly.”
“You did! and it was not wholly without
foundation. You may remember what I told
you on that point, when first we talked of it.”
They were now almost at the door of the
house, for she had walked fast to get rid of
him; and unwilling, for her sister’s sake, to
provoke him, she only said in reply, with a
good-humoured smile:
“Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and
sister, you know. Do not let us quarrel about
the past. In future, I hope we shall be always
of one mind.”
She held out her hand; he kissed it with
affectionate gallantry, though he hardly knew
how to look, and they entered the house.
Chapter 53
Mr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with
this conversation that he never again distressed himself, or provoked his dear sister
Elizabeth, by introducing the subject of it;
and she was pleased to find that she had said
enough to keep him quiet.
The day of his and Lydia’s departure soon
came, and Mrs. Bennet was forced to submit
to a separation, which, as her husband by no
means entered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle, was likely to continue at
least a twelvemonth.
“Oh! my dear Lydia,” she cried, “when
shall we meet again?”
“Oh, lord! I don’t know. Not these two or
three years, perhaps.”
“Write to me very often, my dear.”
“As often as I can. But you know married
women have never much time for writing. My
sisters may write to me. They will have nothing else to do.”
Mr. Wickham’s adieus were much more affectionate than his wife’s. He smiled, looked
handsome, and said many pretty things.
“He is as fine a fellow,” said Mr. Bennet, as
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Pride and Prejudice
soon as they were out of the house, “as ever I
saw. He simpers, and smirks, and makes love
to us all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I
defy even Sir William Lucas himself to produce a more valuable son-in-law.”
The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet
very dull for several days.
“I often think,” said she, “that there is
nothing so bad as parting with one’s friends.
One seems so forlorn without them.”
“This is the consequence, you see, Madam,
of marrying a daughter,” said Elizabeth. “It
must make you better satisfied that your
other four are single.”
“It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave
me because she is married, but only because
her husband’s regiment happens to be so far
off. If that had been nearer, she would not
have gone so soon.”
But the spiritless condition which this
event threw her into was shortly relieved, and
her mind opened again to the agitation of
hope, by an article of news which then began to be in circulation. The housekeeper at
Netherfield had received orders to prepare for
the arrival of her master, who was coming
down in a day or two, to shoot there for several
weeks. Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets.
She looked at Jane, and smiled and shook her
head by turns.
“Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming
down, sister,” (for Mrs. Phillips first brought
her the news). “Well, so much the better. Not
that I care about it, though. He is nothing to
us, you know, and I am sure I never want to
Chapter 53
469
see him again. But, however, he is very welcome to come to Netherfield, if he likes it. And
who knows what may happen? But that is
nothing to us. You know, sister, we agreed long
ago never to mention a word about it. And so,
is it quite certain he is coming?”
“You may depend on it,” replied the other,
“for Mrs. Nicholls was in Meryton last night;
I saw her passing by, and went out myself
on purpose to know the truth of it; and she
told me that it was certain true. He comes
down on Thursday at the latest, very likely on
Wednesday. She was going to the butcher’s,
she told me, on purpose to order in some meat
on Wednesday, and she has got three couple of
ducks just fit to be killed.”
Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of
his coming without changing colour. It was
many months since she had mentioned his
name to Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they
were alone together, she said:
“I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when
my aunt told us of the present report; and I
know I appeared distressed. But don’t imagine it was from any silly cause. I was only
confused for the moment, because I felt that I
should be looked at. I do assure you that the
news does not affect me either with pleasure
or pain. I am glad of one thing, that he comes
alone; because we shall see the less of him.
Not that I am afraid of myself, but I dread
other people’s remarks.”
Elizabeth did not know what to make of
it. Had she not seen him in Derbyshire, she
might have supposed him capable of coming
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Pride and Prejudice
there with no other view than what was acknowledged; but she still thought him partial to Jane, and she wavered as to the
greater probability of his coming there with
his friend’s permission, or being bold enough
to come without it.
“Yet it is hard,” she sometimes thought,
“that this poor man cannot come to a house
which he has legally hired, without raising all
this speculation! I will leave him to himself.”
In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be her feelings in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could easily perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They
were more disturbed, more unequal, than she
had often seen them.
The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their parents, about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again.
“As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my
dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “you will wait on him
of course.”
“No, no. You forced me into visiting him
last year, and promised, if I went to see him,
he should marry one of my daughters. But it
ended in nothing, and I will not be sent on a
fool’s errand again.”
His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an attention would be
from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his
returning to Netherfield.
“’Tis an etiquette I despise,” said he. “If he
wants our society, let him seek it. He knows
where we live. I will not spend my hours in
running after my neighbours every time they
Chapter 53
471
go away and come back again.”
“Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do not wait on him. But,
however, that shan’t prevent my asking him
to dine here, I am determined. We must have
Mrs. Long and the Gouldings soon. That will
make thirteen with ourselves, so there will be
just room at table for him.”
Consoled by this resolution, she was the
better able to bear her husband’s incivility;
though it was very mortifying to know that
her neighbours might all see Mr. Bingley, in
consequence of it, before they did. As the day
of his arrival drew near:
“I begin to be sorry that he comes at all,”
said Jane to her sister. “It would be nothing;
I could see him with perfect indifference, but
I can hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually
talked of. My mother means well; but she does
not know, no one can know, how much I suffer
from what she says. Happy shall I be, when
his stay at Netherfield is over!”
“I wish I could say any thing to comfort
you,” replied Elizabeth; “but it is wholly out of
my power. You must feel it; and the usual satisfaction of preaching patience to a sufferer is
denied me, because you have always so much.”
Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through
the assistance of servants, contrived to have
the earliest tidings of it, that the period of
anxiety and fretfulness on her side might be
as long as it could. She counted the days that
must intervene before their invitation could
be sent; hopeless of seeing him before. But
on the third morning after his arrival in Hert-
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Pride and Prejudice
fordshire, she saw him, from her dressingroom window, enter the paddock and ride towards the house.
Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane resolutely kept her
place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy her mother, went to the window—she
looked,—she saw Mr. Darcy with him, and sat
down again by her sister.
“There is a gentleman with him, mamma,”
said Kitty; “who can it be?”
“Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I
suppose; I am sure I do not know.”
“La!” replied Kitty, “it looks just like that
man that used to be with him before. Mr.
what’s-his-name. That tall, proud man.”
“Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!—and so it does,
I vow. Well, any friend of Mr. Bingley’s will
always be welcome here, to be sure; but else I
must say that I hate the very sight of him.”
Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and
concern. She knew but little of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the
awkwardness which must attend her sister,
in seeing him almost for the first time after
receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters
were uncomfortable enough. Each felt for the
other, and of course for themselves; and their
mother talked on, of her dislike of Mr. Darcy,
and her resolution to be civil to him only as
Mr. Bingley’s friend, without being heard by
either of them. But Elizabeth had sources of
uneasiness which could not be suspected by
Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage
to shew Mrs. Gardiner’s letter, or to relate
Chapter 53
473
her own change of sentiment towards him.
To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she had refused, and whose merit she
had undervalued; but to her own more extensive information, he was the person to whom
the whole family were indebted for the first of
benefits, and whom she regarded herself with
an interest, if not quite so tender, at least as
reasonable and just as what Jane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment at his coming—at his
coming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again, was almost equal
to what she had known on first witnessing his
altered behaviour in Derbyshire.
The colour which had been driven from her
face, returned for half a minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added lustre to her eyes, as she thought for that space
of time that his affection and wishes must still
be unshaken. But she would not be secure.
“Let me first see how he behaves,” said she;
“it will then be early enough for expectation.”
She sat intently at work, striving to be
composed, and without daring to lift up her
eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to
the face of her sister as the servant was approaching the door. Jane looked a little paler
than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth
had expected. On the gentlemen’s appearing,
her colour increased; yet she received them
with tolerable ease, and with a propriety of
behaviour equally free from any symptom of
resentment or any unnecessary complaisance.
Elizabeth said as little to either as civility
would allow, and sat down again to her work,
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Pride and Prejudice
with an eagerness which it did not often command. She had ventured only one glance at
Darcy. He looked serious, as usual; and, she
thought, more as he had been used to look in
Hertfordshire, than as she had seen him at
Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her
mother’s presence be what he was before her
uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but not an
improbable, conjecture.
Bingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short period saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was received by Mrs. Bennet with a degree of civility which made her two daughters ashamed,
especially when contrasted with the cold and
ceremonious politeness of her curtsey and address to his friend.
Elizabeth, particularly, who knew that her
mother owed to the latter the preservation
of her favourite daughter from irremediable
infamy, was hurt and distressed to a most
painful degree by a distinction so ill applied.
Darcy, after inquiring of her how Mr. and
Mrs. Gardiner did, a question which she could
not answer without confusion, said scarcely
any thing. He was not seated by her; perhaps that was the reason of his silence; but
it had not been so in Derbyshire. There he
had talked to her friends, when he could not
to herself. But now several minutes elapsed
without bringing the sound of his voice; and
when occasionally, unable to resist the impulse of curiosity, she raised he eyes to his
face, she as often found him looking at Jane as
at herself, and frequently on no object but the
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475
ground. More thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please, than when they last met, were
plainly expressed. She was disappointed, and
angry with herself for being so.
“Could I expect it to be otherwise!” said
she. “Yet why did he come?”
She was in no humour for conversation
with anyone but himself; and to him she had
hardly courage to speak.
She inquired after his sister, but could do
no more.
“It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you
went away,” said Mrs. Bennet.
He readily agreed to it.
“I began to be afraid you would never come
back again. People did say you meant to quit
the place entirely at Michaelmas; but, however, I hope it is not true. A great many
changes have happened in the neighbourhood,
since you went away. Miss Lucas is married
and settled. And one of my own daughters.
I suppose you have heard of it; indeed, you
must have seen it in the papers. It was in The
Times and The Courier, I know; though it was
not put in as it ought to be. It was only said,
‘Lately, George Wickham, Esq. to Miss Lydia
Bennet,’ without there being a syllable said of
her father, or the place where she lived, or any
thing. It was my brother Gardiner’s drawing
up too, and I wonder how he came to make
such an awkward business of it. Did you see
it?”
Bingley replied that he did, and made his
congratulations. Elizabeth dared not lift up
her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked, therefore,
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Pride and Prejudice
she could not tell.
“It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to
have a daughter well married,” continued her
mother, “but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it
is very hard to have her taken such a way from
me. They are gone down to Newcastle, a place
quite northward, it seems, and there they are
to stay I do not know how long. His regiment
is there; for I suppose you have heard of his
leaving the ——shire, and of his being gone
into the regulars. Thank Heaven! he has some
friends, though perhaps not so many as he deserves.”
Elizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at
Mr. Darcy, was in such misery of shame, that
she could hardly keep her seat. It drew from
her, however, the exertion of speaking, which
nothing else had so effectually done before;
and she asked Bingley whether he meant to
make any stay in the country at present. A
few weeks, he believed.
“When you have killed all your own birds,
Mr. Bingley,” said her mother, “I beg you will
come here, and shoot as many as you please
on Mr. Bennet’s manor. I am sure he will be
vastly happy to oblige you, and will save all
the best of the covies for you.”
Elizabeth’s misery increased, at such unnecessary, such officious attention! Were the
same fair prospect to arise at present as had
flattered them a year ago, every thing, she
was persuaded, would be hastening to the
same vexatious conclusion. At that instant,
she felt that years of happiness could not
make Jane or herself amends for moments of
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477
such painful confusion.
“The first wish of my heart,” said she to
herself, “is never more to be in company with
either of them. Their society can afford no
pleasure that will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me never see either one or
the other again!”
Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no compensation, received
soon afterwards material relief, from observing how much the beauty of her sister rekindled the admiration of her former lover.
When first he came in, he had spoken to her
but little; but every five minutes seemed to be
giving her more of his attention. He found her
as handsome as she had been last year; as
good natured, and as unaffected, though not
quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no difference should be perceived in her at all, and
was really persuaded that she talked as much
as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged,
that she did not always know when she was
silent.
When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs.
Bennet was mindful of her intended civility,
and they were invited and engaged to dine at
Longbourn in a few days time.
“You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley,” she added, “for when you went to town
last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with us, as soon as you returned. I have
not forgot, you see; and I assure you, I was
very much disappointed that you did not come
back and keep your engagement.”
Bingley looked a little silly at this reflec-
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Pride and Prejudice
tion, and said something of his concern at having been prevented by business. They then
went away.
Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to
ask them to stay and dine there that day; but,
though she always kept a very good table, she
did not think any thing less than two courses
could be good enough for a man on whom she
had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and pride of one who had ten thousand
a year.
Chapter 54
As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked
out to recover her spirits; or in other words, to
dwell without interruption on those subjects
that must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy’s behaviour astonished and vexed her.
“Why, if he came only to be silent, grave,
and indifferent,” said she, “did he come at all?”
She could settle it in no way that gave her
pleasure.
“He could be still amiable, still pleasing,
to my uncle and aunt, when he was in town;
and why not to me? If he fears me, why come
hither? If he no longer cares for me, why
silent? Teasing, teasing, man! I will think no
more about him.”
Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach of her sister,
who joined her with a cheerful look, which
showed her better satisfied with their visitors,
than Elizabeth.
“Now,” said she, “that this first meeting is
over, I feel perfectly easy. I know my own
strength, and I shall never be embarrassed
again by his coming. I am glad he dines here
on Tuesday. It will then be publicly seen that,
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Pride and Prejudice
on both sides, we meet only as common and
indifferent acquaintance.”
“Yes, very indifferent indeed,” said Elizabeth, laughingly. “Oh, Jane, take care.”
“My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so
weak, as to be in danger now?”
“I think you are in very great danger of
making him as much in love with you as ever.”
They did not see the gentlemen again till
Tuesday; and Mrs. Bennet, in the meanwhile,
was giving way to all the happy schemes,
which the good humour and common politeness of Bingley, in half an hour’s visit, had revived.
On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and the two who were
most anxiously expected, to the credit of their
punctuality as sportsmen, were in very good
time. When they repaired to the dining-room,
Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether
Bingley would take the place, which, in all
their former parties, had belonged to him, by
her sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by
the same ideas, forbore to invite him to sit
by herself. On entering the room, he seemed
to hesitate; but Jane happened to look round,
and happened to smile: it was decided. He
placed himself by her.
Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation,
looked towards his friend. He bore it with
noble indifference, and she would have imagined that Bingley had received his sanction to
be happy, had she not seen his eyes likewise
turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an expression
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of half-laughing alarm.
His behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time, as showed an admiration of
her, which, though more guarded than formerly, persuaded Elizabeth, that if left wholly
to himself, Jane’s happiness, and his own,
would be speedily secured. Though she dared
not depend upon the consequence, she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour.
It gave her all the animation that her spirits
could boast; for she was in no cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her
as the table could divide them. He was on
one side of her mother. She knew how little
such a situation would give pleasure to either,
or make either appear to advantage. She was
not near enough to hear any of their discourse,
but she could see how seldom they spoke to
each other, and how formal and cold was their
manner whenever they did. Her mother’s ungraciousness, made the sense of what they
owed him more painful to Elizabeth’s mind;
and she would, at times, have given any thing
to be privileged to tell him that his kindness
was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole
of the family.
She was in hopes that the evening would
afford some opportunity of bringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not
pass away without enabling them to enter
into something more of conversation than the
mere ceremonious salutation attending his
entrance. Anxious and uneasy, the period
which passed in the drawing-room, before the
gentlemen came, was wearisome and dull to
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a degree that almost made her uncivil. She
looked forward to their entrance as the point
on which all her chance of pleasure for the
evening must depend.
“If he does not come to me, then,” said she,
“I shall give him up for ever.”
The gentlemen came; and she thought he
looked as if he would have answered her
hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded round
the table, where Miss Bennet was making tea,
and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee, in so
close a confederacy that there was not a single vacancy near her which would admit of a
chair. And on the gentlemen’s approaching,
one of the girls moved closer to her than ever,
and said, in a whisper:
“The men shan’t come and part us, I am
determined. We want none of them; do we?”
Darcy had walked away to another part of
the room. She followed him with her eyes, envied everyone to whom he spoke, had scarcely
patience enough to help anybody to coffee; and
then was enraged against herself for being so
silly!
“A man who has once been refused! How
could I ever be foolish enough to expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex,
who would not protest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same woman?
There is no indignity so abhorrent to their
feelings!”
She was a little revived, however, by his
bringing back his coffee cup himself; and she
seized the opportunity of saying:
“Is your sister at Pemberley still?”
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“Yes, she will remain there till Christmas.”
“And quite alone? Have all her friends left
her?”
“Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others
have been gone on to Scarborough, these three
weeks.”
She could think of nothing more to say; but
if he wished to converse with her, he might
have better success. He stood by her, however, for some minutes, in silence; and, at last,
on the young lady’s whispering to Elizabeth
again, he walked away.
When the tea-things were removed, and
the card-tables placed, the ladies all rose, and
Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined
by him, when all her views were overthrown
by seeing him fall a victim to her mother’s rapacity for whist players, and in a few moments
after seated with the rest of the party. She
now lost every expectation of pleasure. They
were confined for the evening at different tables, and she had nothing to hope, but that his
eyes were so often turned towards her side of
the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself.
Mrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two
Netherfield gentlemen to supper; but their
carriage was unluckily ordered before any of
the others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them.
“Well girls,” said she, as soon as they were
left to themselves, “What say you to the day? I
think every thing has passed off uncommonly
well, I assure you. The dinner was as well
dressed as any I ever saw. The venison was
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roasted to a turn—and everybody said they
never saw so fat a haunch. The soup was
fifty times better than what we had at the Lucases’ last week; and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges were remarkably
well done; and I suppose he has two or three
French cooks at least. And, my dear Jane, I
never saw you look in greater beauty. Mrs.
Long said so too, for I asked her whether you
did not. And what do you think she said besides? ‘Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have her
at Netherfield at last.’ She did indeed. I do
think Mrs. Long is as good a creature as ever
lived—and her nieces are very pretty behaved
girls, and not at all handsome: I like them
prodigiously.”
Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great
spirits; she had seen enough of Bingley’s behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she
would get him at last; and her expectations of
advantage to her family, when in a happy humour, were so far beyond reason, that she was
quite disappointed at not seeing him there
again the next day, to make his proposals.
“It has been a very agreeable day,” said
Miss Bennet to Elizabeth. “The party seemed
so well selected, so suitable one with the other.
I hope we may often meet again.”
Elizabeth smiled.
“Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not
suspect me. It mortifies me. I assure you
that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an agreeable and sensible young man,
without having a wish beyond it. I am perfectly satisfied, from what his manners now
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are, that he never had any design of engaging
my affection. It is only that he is blessed with
greater sweetness of address, and a stronger
desire of generally pleasing, than any other
man.”
“You are very cruel,” said her sister, “you
will not let me smile, and are provoking me to
it every moment.”
“How hard it is in some cases to be believed!”
“And how impossible in others!”
“But why should you wish to persuade me
that I feel more than I acknowledge?”
“That is a question which I hardly know
how to answer. We all love to instruct, though
we can teach only what is not worth knowing.
Forgive me; and if you persist in indifference,
do not make me your confidante.”
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Chapter 55
A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called
again, and alone. His friend had left him that
morning for London, but was to return home
in ten days time. He sat with them above
an hour, and was in remarkably good spirits.
Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them;
but, with many expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere.
“Next time you call,” said she, “I hope we
shall be more lucky.”
He should be particularly happy at any
time, etc. etc.; and if she would give him leave,
would take an early opportunity of waiting on
them.
“Can you come to-morrow?”
Yes, he had no engagement at all for tomorrow; and her invitation was accepted with
alacrity.
He came, and in such very good time that
the ladies were none of them dressed. In ran
Mrs. Bennet to her daughter’s room, in her
dressing gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out:
“My dear Jane, make haste and hurry
down. He is come—Mr. Bingley is come. He
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Pride and Prejudice
is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here,
Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, and
help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss
Lizzy’s hair.”
“We will be down as soon as we can,” said
Jane; “but I dare say Kitty is forwarder than
either of us, for she went up stairs half an
hour ago.”
“Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with
it? Come be quick, be quick! Where is your
sash, my dear?”
But when her mother was gone, Jane
would not be prevailed on to go down without
one of her sisters.
The same anxiety to get them by themselves was visible again in the evening. After
tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was
his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus
removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on
them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and
when at last Kitty did, she very innocently
said, “What is the matter mamma? What do
you keep winking at me for? What am I to
do?”
“Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at
you.” She then sat still five minutes longer;
but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty,
“Come here, my love, I want to speak to you,”
took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave
a look at Elizabeth which spoke her distress
at such premeditation, and her entreaty that
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she would not give in to it. In a few minutes,
Mrs. Bennet half-opened the door and called
out:
“Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you.”
Elizabeth was forced to go.
“We may as well leave them by themselves
you know;” said her mother, as soon as she
was in the hall. “Kitty and I are going upstairs
to sit in my dressing-room.”
Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with
her mother, but remained quietly in the hall,
till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned into the drawing-room.
Mrs. Bennet’s schemes for this day were
ineffectual. Bingley was every thing that
was charming, except the professed lover of
her daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their
evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged
officiousness of the mother, and heard all her
silly remarks with a forbearance and command of countenance particularly grateful to
the daughter.
He scarcely needed an invitation to stay
supper; and before he went away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own
and Mrs. Bennet’s means, for his coming next
morning to shoot with her husband.
After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went
to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy returned
within the stated time. Seriously, however,
she felt tolerably persuaded that all this must
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have taken place with that gentleman’s concurrence.
Bingley was punctual to his appointment;
and he and Mr. Bennet spent the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter
was much more agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption or folly in Bingley that could provoke his
ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and he
was more communicative, and less eccentric,
than the other had ever seen him. Bingley of
course returned with him to dinner; and in the
evening Mrs. Bennet’s invention was again at
work to get every body away from him and her
daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter to write,
went into the breakfast room for that purpose
soon after tea; for as the others were all going
to sit down to cards, she could not be wanted
to counteract her mother’s schemes.
But on returning to the drawing-room,
when her letter was finished, she saw, to her
infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that
her mother had been too ingenious for her. On
opening the door, she perceived her sister and
Bingley standing together over the hearth, as
if engaged in earnest conversation; and had
this led to no suspicion, the faces of both, as
they hastily turned round and moved away
from each other, would have told it all. Their
situation was awkward enough; but her’s she
thought was still worse. Not a syllable was
uttered by either; and Elizabeth was on the
point of going away again, when Bingley, who
as well as the other had sat down, suddenly
rose, and whispering a few words to her sis-
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ter, ran out of the room.
Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give pleasure;
and instantly embracing her, acknowledged,
with the liveliest emotion, that she was the
happiest creature in the world.
“’Tis too much!” she added, “by far too
much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why is not everybody as happy?”
Elizabeth’s congratulations were given
with a sincerity, a warmth, a delight, which
words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that
remained to be said for the present.
“I must go instantly to my mother;” she
cried. “I would not on any account trifle with
her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to
hear it from anyone but myself. He is gone
to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that
what I have to relate will give such pleasure to
all my dear family! how shall I bear so much
happiness!”
She then hastened away to her mother,
who had purposely broken up the card party,
and was sitting up stairs with Kitty.
Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now
smiled at the rapidity and ease with which
an affair was finally settled, that had given
them so many previous months of suspense
and vexation.
“And this,” said she, “is the end of all his
friend’s anxious circumspection! of all his sister’s falsehood and contrivance! the happiest,
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wisest, most reasonable end!”
In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley,
whose conference with her father had been
short and to the purpose.
“Where is your sister?” said he hastily, as
he opened the door.
“With my mother up stairs. She will be
down in a moment, I dare say.”
He then shut the door, and, coming up to
her, claimed the good wishes and affection of
a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with great cordiality; and then, till her sister came down,
she had to listen to all he had to say of his
own happiness, and of Jane’s perfections; and
in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really
believed all his expectations of felicity to be
rationally founded, because they had for basis the excellent understanding, and superexcellent disposition of Jane, and a general
similarity of feeling and taste between her
and himself.
It was an evening of no common delight
to them all; the satisfaction of Miss Bennet’s
mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to
her face, as made her look handsomer than
ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped
her turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could
not give her consent or speak her approbation
in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings,
though she talked to Bingley of nothing else
for half an hour; and when Mr. Bennet joined
them at supper, his voice and manner plainly
showed how really happy he was.
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Not a word, however, passed his lips in
allusion to it, till their visitor took his leave
for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he
turned to his daughter, and said:
“Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a
very happy woman.”
Jane went to him instantly, kissed him,
and thanked him for his goodness.
“You are a good girl;” he replied, “and I
have great pleasure in thinking you will be so
happily settled. I have not a doubt of your doing very well together. Your tempers are by
no means unlike. You are each of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on;
so easy, that every servant will cheat you; and
so generous, that you will always exceed your
income.”
“I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters would be unpardonable in me.”
“Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet,” cried his wife, “what are you talking
of? Why, he has four or five thousand a year,
and very likely more.” Then addressing her
daughter, “Oh! my dear, dear Jane, I am so
happy! I am sure I shan’t get a wink of sleep
all night. I knew how it would be. I always
said it must be so, at last. I was sure you
could not be so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when he first
came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought
how likely it was that you should come together. Oh! he is the handsomest young man
that ever was seen!”
Wickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane
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was beyond competition her favourite child.
At that moment, she cared for no other. Her
younger sisters soon began to make interest
with her for objects of happiness which she
might in future be able to dispense.
Mary petitioned for the use of the library
at Netherfield; and Kitty begged very hard for
a few balls there every winter.
Bingley, from this time, was of course a
daily visitor at Longbourn; coming frequently
before breakfast, and always remaining till
after supper; unless when some barbarous
neighbour, who could not be enough detested,
had given him an invitation to dinner which
he thought himself obliged to accept.
Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her sister; for while he was
present, Jane had no attention to bestow on
anyone else; but she found herself considerably useful to both of them in those hours of
separation that must sometimes occur. In the
absence of Jane, he always attached himself
to Elizabeth, for the pleasure of talking of her;
and when Bingley was gone, Jane constantly
sought the same means of relief.
“He has made me so happy,” said she, one
evening, “by telling me that he was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I had
not believed it possible.”
“I suspected as much,” replied Elizabeth.
“But how did he account for it?”
“It must have been his sister’s doing. They
were certainly no friends to his acquaintance
with me, which I cannot wonder at, since he
might have chosen so much more advanta-
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495
geously in many respects. But when they see,
as I trust they will, that their brother is happy
with me, they will learn to be contented, and
we shall be on good terms again; though we
can never be what we once were to each other.”
“That is the most unforgiving speech,” said
Elizabeth, “that I ever heard you utter. Good
girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you again
the dupe of Miss Bingley’s pretended regard.”
“Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he
went to town last November, he really loved
me, and nothing but a persuasion of my being
indifferent would have prevented his coming
down again!”
“He made a little mistake to be sure; but it
is to the credit of his modesty.”
This naturally introduced a panegyric
from Jane on his diffidence, and the little
value he put on his own good qualities. Elizabeth was pleased to find that he had not
betrayed the interference of his friend; for,
though Jane had the most generous and forgiving heart in the world, she knew it was
a circumstance which must prejudice her
against him.
“I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!” cried Jane. “Oh! Lizzy,
why am I thus singled from my family, and
blessed above them all! If I could but see you
as happy! If there were but such another man
for you!”
“If you were to give me forty such men, I
never could be so happy as you. Till I have
your disposition, your goodness, I never can
have your happiness. No, no, let me shift for
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myself; and, perhaps, if I have very good luck,
I may meet with another Mr. Collins in time.”
The situation of affairs in the Longbourn
family could not be long a secret. Mrs. Bennet
was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Phillips,
and she ventured, without any permission, to
do the same by all her neighbours in Meryton.
The Bennets were speedily pronounced to
be the luckiest family in the world, though
only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first
run away, they had been generally proved to
be marked out for misfortune.
Chapter 56
One morning, about a week after Bingley’s engagement with Jane had been formed, as he
and the females of the family were sitting together in the dining-room, their attention was
suddenly drawn to the window, by the sound
of a carriage; and they perceived a chaise and
four driving up the lawn. It was too early
in the morning for visitors, and besides, the
equipage did not answer to that of any of their
neighbours. The horses were post; and neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant
who preceded it, were familiar to them. As it
was certain, however, that somebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet to avoid the confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with him into the shrubbery. They both set off, and the conjectures of
the remaining three continued, though with
little satisfaction, till the door was thrown
open and their visitor entered. It was Lady
Catherine de Bourgh.
They were of course all intending to be
surprised; but their astonishment was beyond
their expectation; and on the part of Mrs. Bennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly un-
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Pride and Prejudice
known to them, even inferior to what Elizabeth felt.
She entered the room with an air more
than usually ungracious, made no other reply
to Elizabeth’s salutation than a slight inclination of the head, and sat down without saying
a word. Elizabeth had mentioned her name to
her mother on her ladyship’s entrance, though
no request of introduction had been made.
Mrs. Bennet, all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of such high importance, received her with the utmost politeness. After sitting for a moment in silence,
she said very stiffly to Elizabeth,
“I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That
lady, I suppose, is your mother.”
Elizabeth replied very concisely that she
was.
“And that I suppose is one of your sisters.”
“Yes, madam,” said Mrs. Bennet, delighted
to speak to a Lady Catherine. “She is my
youngest girl but one. My youngest of all is
lately married, and my eldest is somewhere
about the grounds, walking with a young man
who, I believe, will soon become a part of the
family.”
“You have a very small park here,” returned Lady Catherine after a short silence.
“It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my
lady, I dare say; but I assure you it is much
larger than Sir William Lucas’s.”
“This must be a most inconvenient sitting
room for the evening, in summer; the windows
are full west.”
Mrs. Bennet assured her that they never
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sat there after dinner, and then added:
“May I take the liberty of asking your ladyship whether you left Mr. and Mrs. Collins
well.”
“Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last.”
Elizabeth now expected that she would
produce a letter for her from Charlotte, as it
seemed the only probable motive for her calling. But no letter appeared, and she was completely puzzled.
Mrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged
her ladyship to take some refreshment; but
Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not very
politely, declined eating any thing; and then,
rising up, said to Elizabeth,
“Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness on one side of
your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in
it, if you will favour me with your company.”
“Go, my dear,” cried her mother, “and show
her ladyship about the different walks. I think
she will be pleased with the hermitage.”
Elizabeth obeyed, and running into her
own room for her parasol, attended her noble
guest down stairs. As they passed through the
hall, Lady Catherine opened the doors into
the dining-parlour and drawing-room, and
pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be
decent looking rooms, walked on.
Her carriage remained at the door, and
Elizabeth saw that her waiting-woman was in
it. They proceeded in silence along the gravel
walk that led to the copse; Elizabeth was determined to make no effort for conversation
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Pride and Prejudice
with a woman who was now more than usually insolent and disagreeable.
“How could I ever think her like her
nephew?” said she, as she looked in her face.
As soon as they entered the copse, Lady
Catherine began in the following manner:—
“You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to
understand the reason of my journey hither.
Your own heart, your own conscience, must
tell you why I come.”
Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.
“Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have
not been at all able to account for the honour
of seeing you here.”
“Miss Bennet,” replied her ladyship, in an
angry tone, “you ought to know, that I am
not to be trifled with. But however insincere
you may choose to be, you shall not find me
so. My character has ever been celebrated
for its sincerity and frankness, and in a cause
of such moment as this, I shall certainly not
depart from it. A report of a most alarming
nature reached me two days ago. I was told
that not only your sister was on the point of
being most advantageously married, but that
you, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would, in all
likelihood, be soon afterwards united to my
nephew, my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though
I know it must be a scandalous falsehood,
though I would not injure him so much as to
suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly
resolved on setting off for this place, that I
might make my sentiments known to you.”
“If you believed it impossible to be true,”
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said Elizabeth, colouring with astonishment
and disdain, “I wonder you took the trouble
of coming so far. What could your ladyship
propose by it?”
“At once to insist upon having such a report
universally contradicted.”
“Your coming to Longbourn, to see me
and my family,” said Elizabeth coolly, “will be
rather a confirmation of it; if, indeed, such a
report is in existence.”
“If! Do you then pretend to be ignorant of
it? Has it not been industriously circulated
by yourselves? Do you not know that such a
report is spread abroad?”
“I never heard that it was.”
“And can you likewise declare, that there
is no foundation for it?”
“I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship. You may ask questions which I shall not choose to answer.”
“This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet,
I insist on being satisfied. Has he, has my
nephew, made you an offer of marriage?”
“Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible.”
“It ought to be so; it must be so, while he
retains the use of his reason. But your arts
and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation, have made him forget what he owes to
himself and to all his family. You may have
drawn him in.”
“If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it.”
“Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I
have not been accustomed to such language
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as this. I am almost the nearest relation he
has in the world, and am entitled to know all
his dearest concerns.”
“But you are not entitled to know mine; nor
will such behaviour as this, ever induce me to
be explicit.”
“Let me be rightly understood. This match,
to which you have the presumption to aspire,
can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy is
engaged to my daughter. Now what have you
to say?”
“Only this; that if he is so, you can have
no reason to suppose he will make an offer to
me.”
Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment,
and then replied:
“The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy, they have
been intended for each other. It was the
favourite wish of his mother, as well as of
her’s. While in their cradles, we planned the
union: and now, at the moment when the
wishes of both sisters would be accomplished
in their marriage, to be prevented by a young
woman of inferior birth, of no importance in
the world, and wholly unallied to the family! Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his
friends? To his tacit engagement with Miss de
Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of propriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me
say that from his earliest hours he was destined for his cousin?”
“Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is
that to me? If there is no other objection to my
marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not be
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kept from it by knowing that his mother and
aunt wished him to marry Miss de Bourgh.
You both did as much as you could in planning the marriage. Its completion depended
on others. If Mr. Darcy is neither by honour
nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is
not he to make another choice? And if I am
that choice, why may not I accept him?”
“Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay,
interest, forbid it. Yes, Miss Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his
family or friends, if you wilfully act against
the inclinations of all. You will be censured,
slighted, and despised, by everyone connected
with him. Your alliance will be a disgrace;
your name will never even be mentioned by
any of us.”
“These are heavy misfortunes,” replied
Elizabeth. “But the wife of Mr. Darcy must
have such extraordinary sources of happiness
necessarily attached to her situation, that she
could, upon the whole, have no cause to repine.”
“Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed
of you! Is this your gratitude for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to
me on that score? Let us sit down. You are
to understand, Miss Bennet, that I came here
with the determined resolution of carrying my
purpose; nor will I be dissuaded from it. I
have not been used to submit to any person’s
whims. I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment.”
“That will make your ladyship’s situation
at present more pitiable; but it will have no
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effect on me.”
“I will not be interrupted. Hear me in
silence. My daughter and my nephew are
formed for each other. They are descended,
on the maternal side, from the same noble
line; and, on the father’s, from respectable,
honourable, and ancient—though untitled––
families. Their fortune on both sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by
the voice of every member of their respective
houses; and what is to divide them? The upstart pretensions of a young woman without
family, connections, or fortune. Is this to be
endured! But it must not, shall not be. If
you were sensible of your own good, you would
not wish to quit the sphere in which you have
been brought up.”
“In marrying your nephew, I should not
consider myself as quitting that sphere. He
is a gentleman; I am a gentleman’s daughter;
so far we are equal.”
“True. You are a gentleman’s daughter.
But who was your mother? Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant
of their condition.”
“Whatever my connections may be,” said
Elizabeth, “if your nephew does not object to
them, they can be nothing to you.”
“Tell me once for all, are you engaged to
him?”
Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere
purpose of obliging Lady Catherine, have answered this question, she could not but say,
after a moment’s deliberation:
“I am not.”
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Lady Catherine seemed pleased.
“And will you promise me, never to enter
into such an engagement?”
“I will make no promise of the kind.”
“Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more reasonable
young woman. But do not deceive yourself
into a belief that I will ever recede. I shall not
go away till you have given me the assurance
I require.”
“And I certainly never shall give it. I am
not to be intimidated into anything so wholly
unreasonable. Your ladyship wants Mr. Darcy
to marry your daughter; but would my giving
you the wished-for promise make their marriage at all more probable? Supposing him
to be attached to me, would my refusing to
accept his hand make him wish to bestow it
on his cousin? Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with which you have
supported this extraordinary application have
been as frivolous as the application was illjudged. You have widely mistaken my character, if you think I can be worked on by such
persuasions as these. How far your nephew
might approve of your interference in his affairs, I cannot tell; but you have certainly no
right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg,
therefore, to be importuned no farther on the
subject.”
“Not so hasty, if you please. I have by
no means done. To all the objections I have
already urged, I have still another to add.
I am no stranger to the particulars of your
youngest sister’s infamous elopement. I know
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it all; that the young man’s marrying her was
a patched-up business, at the expence of your
father and uncles. And is such a girl to be my
nephew’s sister? Is her husband, is the son
of his late father’s steward, to be his brother?
Heaven and earth!—of what are you thinking?
Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?”
“You can now have nothing farther to say,”
she resentfully answered. “You have insulted
me in every possible method. I must beg to
return to the house.”
And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine
rose also, and they turned back. Her ladyship
was highly incensed.
“You have no regard, then, for the honour
and credit of my nephew! Unfeeling, selfish
girl! Do you not consider that a connection
with you must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?”
“Lady Catherine, I have nothing farther to
say. You know my sentiments.”
“You are then resolved to have him?”
“I have said no such thing. I am only
resolved to act in that manner, which will,
in my own opinion, constitute my happiness,
without reference to you, or to any person so
wholly unconnected with me.”
“It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me.
You refuse to obey the claims of duty, honour,
and gratitude. You are determined to ruin
him in the opinion of all his friends, and make
him the contempt of the world.”
“Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude,”
replied Elizabeth, “have any possible claim on
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me, in the present instance. No principle of
either would be violated by my marriage with
Mr. Darcy. And with regard to the resentment of his family, or the indignation of the
world, if the former were excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment’s
concern—and the world in general would have
too much sense to join in the scorn.”
“And this is your real opinion! This is your
final resolve! Very well. I shall now know how
to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet, that your
ambition will ever be gratified. I came to try
you. I hoped to find you reasonable; but, depend upon it, I will carry my point.”
In this manner Lady Catherine talked on,
till they were at the door of the carriage,
when, turning hastily round, she added, “I
take no leave of you, Miss Bennet. I send
no compliments to your mother. You deserve
no such attention. I am most seriously displeased.”
Elizabeth made no answer; and without
attempting to persuade her ladyship to return
into the house, walked quietly into it herself.
She heard the carriage drive away as she proceeded up stairs. Her mother impatiently met
her at the door of the dressing-room, to ask
why Lady Catherine would not come in again
and rest herself.
“She did not choose it,” said her daughter,
“she would go.”
“She is a very fine-looking woman! and
her calling here was prodigiously civil! for she
only came, I suppose, to tell us the Collinses
were well. She is on her road somewhere, I
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dare say, and so, passing through Meryton,
thought she might as well call on you. I suppose she had nothing particular to say to you,
Lizzy?”
Elizabeth was forced to give into a little
falsehood here; for to acknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible.
Chapter 57
The discomposure of spirits which this extraordinary visit threw Elizabeth into, could
not be easily overcome; nor could she, for
many hours, learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady Catherine, it appeared, had
actually taken the trouble of this journey from
Rosings, for the sole purpose of breaking off
her supposed engagement with Mr. Darcy. It
was a rational scheme, to be sure! but from
what the report of their engagement could
originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine; till she recollected that his being the intimate friend of Bingley, and her being the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the
expectation of one wedding made everybody
eager for another, to supply the idea. She
had not herself forgotten to feel that the marriage of her sister must bring them more frequently together. And her neighbours at Lucas lodge, therefore (for through their communication with the Collinses, the report, she
concluded, had reached Lady Catherine), had
only set that down as almost certain and immediate, which she had looked forward to as
possible at some future time.
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In revolving Lady Catherine’s expressions,
however, she could not help feeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of her
persisting in this interference. From what
she had said of her resolution to prevent their
marriage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she
must meditate an application to her nephew;
and how he might take a similar representation of the evils attached to a connection with
her, she dared not pronounce. She knew not
the exact degree of his affection for his aunt,
or his dependence on her judgment, but it
was natural to suppose that he thought much
higher of her ladyship than she could do; and
it was certain that, in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with one, whose immediate
connections were so unequal to his own, his
aunt would address him on his weakest side.
With his notions of dignity, he would probably
feel that the arguments, which to Elizabeth
had appeared weak and ridiculous, contained
much good sense and solid reasoning.
If he had been wavering before as to what
he should do, which had often seemed likely,
the advice and entreaty of so near a relation
might settle every doubt, and determine him
at once to be as happy as dignity unblemished
could make him. In that case he would return
no more. Lady Catherine might see him in
her way through town; and his engagement to
Bingley of coming again to Netherfield must
give way.
“If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his
promise should come to his friend within a few
days,” she added, “I shall know how to under-
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stand it. I shall then give over every expectation, every wish of his constancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting me, when he might
have obtained my affections and hand, I shall
soon cease to regret him at all.”
The surprise of the rest of the family, on
hearing who their visitor had been, was very
great; but they obligingly satisfied it, with
the same kind of supposition which had appeased Mrs. Bennet’s curiosity; and Elizabeth
was spared from much teasing on the subject.
The next morning, as she was going down
stairs, she was met by her father, who came
out of his library with a letter in his hand.
“Lizzy,” said he, “I was going to look for
you; come into my room.”
She followed him thither; and her curiosity
to know what he had to tell her was heightened by the supposition of its being in some
manner connected with the letter he held. It
suddenly struck her that it might be from
Lady Catherine; and she anticipated with dismay all the consequent explanations.
She followed her father to the fire place,
and they both sat down. He then said,
“I have received a letter this morning that
has astonished me exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its
contents. I did not know before, that I had
two daughters on the brink of matrimony. Let
me congratulate you on a very important conquest.”
The colour now rushed into Elizabeth’s
cheeks in the instantaneous conviction of its
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being a letter from the nephew, instead of
the aunt; and she was undetermined whether
most to be pleased that he explained himself at all, or offended that his letter was not
rather addressed to herself; when her father
continued:
“You look conscious. Young ladies have
great penetration in such matters as these;
but I think I may defy even your sagacity, to
discover the name of your admirer. This letter
is from Mr. Collins.”
“From Mr. Collins! and what can he have
to say?”
“Something very much to the purpose of
course. He begins with congratulations on the
approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter,
of which, it seems, he has been told by some of
the good-natured, gossiping Lucases. I shall
not sport with your impatience, by reading
what he says on that point. What relates to
yourself, is as follows.”
“Having thus offered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins
and myself on this happy event, let
me now add a short hint on the subject of another; of which we have
been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter Elizabeth, it
is presumed, will not long bear the
name of Bennet, after her elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen
partner of her fate may be reasonably looked up to as one of the most
illustrious personages in this land.”
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“Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is
meant by this?”
“This young gentleman is blessed,
in a peculiar way, with every
thing the heart of mortal can most
desire,—splendid property, noble
kindred, and extensive patronage.
Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my cousin Elizabeth, and yourself, of what evils
you may incur by a precipitate closure with this gentleman’s proposals, which, of course, you will be
inclined to take immediate advantage of.”
“Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out.”
“My motive for cautioning you is as
follows. We have reason to imagine
that his aunt, Lady Catherine de
Bourgh, does not look on the match
with a friendly eye.”
“Mr. Darcy, you see, is the man! Now,
Lizzy, I think I have surprised you. Could
he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man
within the circle of our acquaintance, whose
name would have given the lie more effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who
never looks at any woman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at you in
his life! It is admirable!”
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Elizabeth tried to join in her father’s pleasantry, but could only force one most reluctant
smile. Never had his wit been directed in a
manner so little agreeable to her.
“Are you not diverted?”
“Oh! yes. Pray read on.”
“After mentioning the likelihood
of this marriage to her ladyship
last night, she immediately, with
her usual condescension, expressed
what she felt on the occasion; when
it become apparent, that on the
score of some family objections on
the part of my cousin, she would
never give her consent to what she
termed so disgraceful a match. I
thought it my duty to give the
speediest intelligence of this to my
cousin, that she and her noble admirer may be aware of what they
are about, and not run hastily into
a marriage which has not been
properly sanctioned.”
“Mr. Collins moreover adds,”
“I am truly rejoiced that my cousin
Lydia’s sad business has been so
well hushed up, and am only concerned that their living together
before the marriage took place
should be so generally known. I
must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain from
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declaring my amazement at hearing that you received the young
couple into your house as soon as
they were married. It was an encouragement of vice; and had I
been the rector of Longbourn, I
should very strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them as a christian, but never
to admit them in your sight, or allow their names to be mentioned in
your hearing.”
“That is his notion of christian forgiveness!
The rest of his letter is only about his dear
Charlotte’s situation, and his expectation of a
young olive-branch. But, Lizzy, you look as if
you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be
Missish, I hope, and pretend to be affronted
at an idle report. For what do we live, but to
make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at
them in our turn?”
“Oh!” cried Elizabeth, “I am excessively diverted. But it is so strange!”
“Yes—that is what makes it amusing. Had
they fixed on any other man it would have
been nothing; but his perfect indifference, and
your pointed dislike, make it so delightfully
absurd! Much as I abominate writing, I would
not give up Mr. Collins’s correspondence for
any consideration. Nay, when I read a letter
of his, I cannot help giving him the preference
even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and hypocrisy of my son-in-law. And
pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine about
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this report? Did she call to refuse her consent?”
To this question his daughter replied only
with a laugh; and as it had been asked without the least suspicion, she was not distressed
by his repeating it. Elizabeth had never been
more at a loss to make her feelings appear
what they were not. It was necessary to laugh,
when she would rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her, by what
he said of Mr. Darcy’s indifference, and she
could do nothing but wonder at such a want
of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead
of his seeing too little, she might have fancied
too much.
Chapter 58
Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse
from his friend, as Elizabeth half expected
Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcy
with him to Longbourn before many days had
passed after Lady Catherine’s visit. The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet
had time to tell him of their having seen his
aunt, of which her daughter sat in momentary
dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with
Jane, proposed their all walking out. It was
agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the habit of
walking; Mary could never spare time; but the
remaining five set off together. Bingley and
Jane, however, soon allowed the others to outstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy were to entertain each
other. Very little was said by either; Kitty was
too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was
secretly forming a desperate resolution; and
perhaps he might be doing the same.
They walked towards the Lucases, because
Kitty wished to call upon Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general
concern, when Kitty left them she went boldly
on with him alone. Now was the moment for
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her resolution to be executed, and, while her
courage was high, she immediately said:
“Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature;
and, for the sake of giving relief to my own
feelings, care not how much I may be wounding your’s. I can no longer help thanking
you for your unexampled kindness to my poor
sister. Ever since I have known it, I have
been most anxious to acknowledge to you how
gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest
of my family, I should not have merely my own
gratitude to express.”
“I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,” replied
Darcy, in a tone of surprise and emotion, “that
you have ever been informed of what may, in
a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness.
I did not think Mrs. Gardiner was so little to
be trusted.”
“You must not blame my aunt. Lydia’s
thoughtlessness first betrayed to me that you
had been concerned in the matter; and, of
course, I could not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again, in the
name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much
trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for
the sake of discovering them.”
“If you will thank me,” he replied, “let it
be for yourself alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the
other inducements which led me on, I shall
not attempt to deny. But your family owe me
nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I
thought only of you.”
Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to
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say a word. After a short pause, her companion added, “You are too generous to trifle with
me. If your feelings are still what they were
last April, tell me so at once. My affections
and wishes are unchanged, but one word from
you will silence me on this subject for ever.”
Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to
understand that her sentiments had undergone so material a change, since the period
to which he alluded, as to make her receive
with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The happiness which this reply produced, was such as he had probably never felt
before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man
violently in love can be supposed to do. Had
Elizabeth been able to encounter his eye, she
might have seen how well the expression of
heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, became him; but, though she could not look, she
could listen, and he told her of feelings, which,
in proving of what importance she was to him,
made his affection every moment more valuable.
They walked on, without knowing in what
direction. There was too much to be thought,
and felt, and said, for attention to any other
objects. She soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding
to the efforts of his aunt, who did call on him
in her return through London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and
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the substance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on every expression of the latter which, in her ladyship’s apprehension, peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance; in the belief that such a
relation must assist her endeavours to obtain
that promise from her nephew which she had
refused to give. But, unluckily for her ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise.
“It taught me to hope,” said he, “as I had
scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before.
I knew enough of your disposition to be certain that, had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have acknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and
openly.”
Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she
replied, “Yes, you know enough of my frankness to believe me capable of that. After abusing you so abominably to your face, I could
have no scruple in abusing you to all your relations.”
“What did you say of me, that I did not
deserve? For, though your accusations were
ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my
behaviour to you at the time had merited the
severest reproof. It was unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence.”
“We will not quarrel for the greater share
of blame annexed to that evening,” said Elizabeth. “The conduct of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then,
we have both, I hope, improved in civility.”
“I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself.
The recollection of what I then said, of my
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conduct, my manners, my expressions during
the whole of it, is now, and has been many
months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget:
‘had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike
manner.’ Those were your words. You know
not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have
tortured me;—though it was some time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow
their justice.”
“I was certainly very far from expecting
them to make so strong an impression. I had
not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in
such a way.”
“I can easily believe it. You thought me
then devoid of every proper feeling, I am sure
you did. The turn of your countenance I shall
never forget, as you said that I could not have
addressed you in any possible way that would
induce you to accept me.”
“Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These
recollections will not do at all. I assure you
that I have long been most heartily ashamed
of it.”
Darcy mentioned his letter. “Did it,” said
he, “did it soon make you think better of me?
Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its
contents?”
She explained what its effect on her had
been, and how gradually all her former prejudices had been removed.
“I knew,” said he, “that what I wrote must
give you pain, but it was necessary. I hope
you have destroyed the letter. There was
one part especially, the opening of it, which
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I should dread your having the power of reading again. I can remember some expressions
which might justly make you hate me.”
“The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you
believe it essential to the preservation of my
regard; but, though we have both reason to
think my opinions not entirely unalterable,
they are not, I hope, quite so easily changed
as that implies.”
“When I wrote that letter,” replied Darcy,
“I believed myself perfectly calm and cool, but
I am since convinced that it was written in a
dreadful bitterness of spirit.”
“The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness,
but it did not end so. The adieu is charity
itself. But think no more of the letter. The
feelings of the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now so widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance attending it ought to
be forgotten. You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure.”
“I cannot give you credit for any philosophy
of the kind. Your retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment
arising from them is not of philosophy, but,
what is much better, of innocence. But with
me, it is not so. Painful recollections will intrude which cannot, which ought not, to be repelled. I have been a selfish being all my life,
in practice, though not in principle. As a child
I was taught what was right, but I was not
taught to correct my temper. I was given good
principles, but left to follow them in pride and
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conceit. Unfortunately an only son (for many
years an only child), I was spoilt by my parents, who, though good themselves (my father,
particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable), allowed, encouraged, almost taught me
to be selfish and overbearing; to care for none
beyond my own family circle; to think meanly
of all the rest of the world; to wish at least to
think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I was, from eight
to eight and twenty; and such I might still
have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You taught me
a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I
came to you without a doubt of my reception.
You showed me how insufficient were all my
pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.”
“Had you then persuaded yourself that I
should?”
“Indeed I had. What will you think of my
vanity? I believed you to be wishing, expecting my addresses.”
“My manners must have been in fault, but
not intentionally, I assure you. I never meant
to deceive you, but my spirits might often lead
me wrong. How you must have hated me after
that evening?”
“Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first,
but my anger soon began to take a proper direction.”
“I am almost afraid of asking what you
thought of me, when we met at Pemberley.
You blamed me for coming?”
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“No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise.”
“Your surprise could not be greater than
mine in being noticed by you. My conscience
told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I confess that I did not expect to
receive more than my due.”
“My object then,” replied Darcy, “was to
show you, by every civility in my power, that
I was not so mean as to resent the past; and
I hoped to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen
your ill opinion, by letting you see that your
reproofs had been attended to. How soon
any other wishes introduced themselves I can
hardly tell, but I believe in about half an hour
after I had seen you.”
He then told her of Georgiana’s delight in
her acquaintance, and of her disappointment
at its sudden interruption; which naturally
leading to the cause of that interruption, she
soon learnt that his resolution of following her
from Derbyshire in quest of her sister had
been formed before he quitted the inn, and
that his gravity and thoughtfulness there had
arisen from no other struggles than what such
a purpose must comprehend.
She expressed her gratitude again, but it
was too painful a subject to each, to be dwelt
on farther.
After walking several miles in a leisurely
manner, and too busy to know any thing about
it, they found at last, on examining their
watches, that it was time to be at home.
“What could become of Mr. Bingley and
Jane!” was a wonder which introduced the discussion of their affairs. Darcy was delighted
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with their engagement; his friend had given
him the earliest information of it.
“I must ask whether you were surprised?”
said Elizabeth.
“Not at all. When I went away, I felt that
it would soon happen.”
“That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much.” And though he
exclaimed at the term, she found that it had
been pretty much the case.
“On the evening before my going to London,” said he, “I made a confession to him,
which I believe I ought to have made long ago.
I told him of all that had occurred to make
my former interference in his affairs absurd
and impertinent. His surprise was great. He
had never had the slightest suspicion. I told
him, moreover, that I believed myself mistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your
sister was indifferent to him; and as I could
easily perceive that his attachment to her was
unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together.”
Elizabeth could not help smiling at his
easy manner of directing his friend.
“Did you speak from your own observation,” said she, “when you told him that my
sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?”
“From the former. I had narrowly observed
her during the two visits which I had lately
made here; and I was convinced of her affection.”
“And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to him.”
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“It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case,
but his reliance on mine made every thing
easy. I was obliged to confess one thing, which
for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I
could not allow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months last winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it
from him. He was angry. But his anger, I am
persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained
in any doubt of your sister’s sentiments. He
has heartily forgiven me now.”
Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightful friend; so easily guided that his worth was invaluable; but
she checked herself. She remembered that he
had yet to learn to be laughed at, and it was
rather too early to begin. In anticipating the
happiness of Bingley, which of course was to
be inferior only to his own, he continued the
conversation till they reached the house. In
the hall they parted.
Chapter 59
“My dear Lizzy, where can you have been
walking to?” was a question which Elizabeth
received from Jane as soon as she entered
their room, and from all the others when they
sat down to table. She had only to say in reply,
that they had wandered about, till she was beyond her own knowledge. She coloured as she
spoke; but neither that, nor any thing else,
awakened a suspicion of the truth.
The evening passed quietly, unmarked by
any thing extraordinary. The acknowledged
lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged were silent. Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth;
and Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather
knew that she was happy than felt herself to
be so; for, besides the immediate embarrassment, there were other evils before her. She
anticipated what would be felt in the family
when her situation became known; she was
aware that no one liked him but Jane; and
even feared that with the others it was a dislike which not all his fortune and consequence
might do away.
At night she opened her heart to Jane.
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PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
Though suspicion was very far from Miss Bennet’s general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here.
“You are joking, Lizzy.
This cannot
be!—engaged to Mr. Darcy! No, no, you shall
not deceive me. I know it to be impossible.”
“This is a wretched beginning indeed! My
sole dependence was on you; and I am sure
nobody else will believe me, if you do not. Yet,
indeed, I am in earnest. I speak nothing but
the truth. He still loves me, and we are engaged.”
Jane looked at her doubtingly. “Oh, Lizzy!
it cannot be. I know how much you dislike
him.”
“You know nothing of the matter. That is
all to be forgot. Perhaps I did not always love
him so well as I do now. But in such cases as
these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is
the last time I shall ever remember it myself.”
Miss Bennet still looked all amazement.
Elizabeth again, and more seriously assured
her of its truth.
“Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now
I must believe you,” cried Jane. “My dear, dear
Lizzy, I would—I do congratulate you—but
are you certain? forgive the question—are you
quite certain that you can be happy with
him?”
“There can be no doubt of that. It is settled
between us already, that we are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased,
Jane? Shall you like to have such a brother?”
“Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more delight. But we
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529
considered it, we talked of it as impossible.
And do you really love him quite well enough?
Oh, Lizzy! do any thing rather than marry
without affection. Are you quite sure that you
feel what you ought to do?”
“Oh, yes! You will only think I feel more
than I ought to do, when I tell you all.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do Bingley. I am afraid you will be
angry.”
“My dearest sister, now be serious. I want
to talk very seriously. Let me know every
thing that I am to know, without delay. Will
you tell me how long you have loved him?”
“It has been coming on so gradually, that
I hardly know when it began. But I believe I
must date it from my first seeing his beautiful
grounds at Pemberley.”
Another entreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the desired effect; and
she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn assurances of attachment. When convinced on that
article, Miss Bennet had nothing farther to
wish.
“Now I am quite happy,” said she, “for you
will be as happy as myself. I always had a
value for him. Were it for nothing but his love
of you, I must always have esteemed him; but
now, as Bingley’s friend and your husband,
there can be only Bingley and yourself more
dear to me. But Lizzy, you have been very
sly, very reserved with me. How little did
you tell me of what passed at Pemberley and
Lambton! I owe all that I know of it to an-
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PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
other, not to you.”
Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been unwilling to mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own feelings had made her equally avoid the name
of his friend. But now she would no longer
conceal from her his share in Lydia’s marriage. All was acknowledged, and half the
night spent in conversation.
“Good gracious!” cried Mrs. Bennet, as she
stood at a window the next morning, “if that
disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here
again with our dear Bingley! What can he
mean by being so tiresome as to be always
coming here? I had no notion but he would go
a-shooting, or something or other, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do
with him? Lizzy, you must walk out with him
again, that he may not be in Bingley’s way.”
Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so
convenient a proposal; yet was really vexed
that her mother should be always giving him
such an epithet.
As soon as they entered, Bingley looked
at her so expressively, and shook hands with
such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information; and he soon afterwards said aloud,
“Mrs. Bennet, have you no more lanes hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again
to-day?”
“I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty,”
said Mrs. Bennet, “to walk to Oakham Mount
this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr.
Darcy has never seen the view.”
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531
“It may do very well for the others,” replied
Mr. Bingley; “but I am sure it will be too
much for Kitty. Won’t it, Kitty?” Kitty owned
that she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great curiosity to see the view from
the Mount, and Elizabeth silently consented.
As she went up stairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her, saying:
“I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should
be forced to have that disagreeable man all to
yourself. But I hope you will not mind it: it
is all for Jane’s sake, you know; and there is
no occasion for talking to him, except just now
and then. So, do not put yourself to inconvenience.”
During their walk, it was resolved that
Mr. Bennet’s consent should be asked in the
course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved to
herself the application for her mother’s. She
could not determine how her mother would
take it; sometimes doubting whether all his
wealth and grandeur would be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man. But whether
she were violently set against the match, or
violently delighted with it, it was certain that
her manner would be equally ill adapted to
do credit to her sense; and she could no more
bear that Mr. Darcy should hear the first raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of
her disapprobation.
In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library, she saw Mr. Darcy rise
also and follow him, and her agitation on seeing it was extreme. She did not fear her fa-
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PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
ther’s opposition, but he was going to be made
unhappy; and that it should be through her
means—that she, his favourite child, should
be distressing him by her choice, should be filling him with fears and regrets in disposing of
her—was a wretched reflection, and she sat in
misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when,
looking at him, she was a little relieved by his
smile. In a few minutes he approached the
table where she was sitting with Kitty; and,
while pretending to admire her work said in
a whisper, “Go to your father, he wants you in
the library.” She was gone directly.
Her father was walking about the room,
looking grave and anxious. “Lizzy,” said he,
“what are you doing? Are you out of your
senses, to be accepting this man? Have not
you always hated him?”
How earnestly did she then wish that her
former opinions had been more reasonable,
her expressions more moderate! It would have
spared her from explanations and professions
which it was exceedingly awkward to give;
but they were now necessary, and she assured
him, with some confusion, of her attachment
to Mr. Darcy.
“Or, in other words, you are determined to
have him. He is rich, to be sure, and you may
have more fine clothes and fine carriages than
Jane. But will they make you happy?”
“Have you any other objection,” said Elizabeth, “than your belief of my indifference?”
“None at all. We all know him to be a
proud, unpleasant sort of man; but this would
be nothing if you really liked him.”
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533
“I do, I do like him,” she replied, with tears
in her eyes, “I love him. Indeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do
not know what he really is; then pray do not
pain me by speaking of him in such terms.”
“Lizzy,” said her father, “I have given him
my consent. He is the kind of man, indeed, to
whom I should never dare refuse any thing,
which he condescended to ask. I now give
it to you, if you are resolved on having him.
But let me advise you to think better of it. I
know your disposition, Lizzy. I know that you
could be neither happy nor respectable, unless
you truly esteemed your husband; unless you
looked up to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the greatest danger
in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely
escape discredit and misery. My child, let me
not have the grief of seeing you unable to respect your partner in life. You know not what
you are about.”
Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest
and solemn in her reply; and at length, by
repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was really the object of her choice, by explaining
the gradual change which her estimation of
him had undergone, relating her absolute certainty that his affection was not the work of a
day, but had stood the test of many months
suspense, and enumerating with energy all
his good qualities, she did conquer her father’s
incredulity, and reconcile him to the match.
“Well, my dear,” said he, when she ceased
speaking, “I have no more to say. If this be the
case, he deserves you. I could not have parted
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PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
with you, my Lizzy, to anyone less worthy.”
To complete the favourable impression,
she then told him what Mr. Darcy had voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with
astonishment.
“This is an evening of wonders, indeed!
And so, Darcy did every thing; made up
the match, gave the money, paid the fellow’s
debts, and got him his commission! So much
the better. It will save me a world of trouble
and economy. Had it been your uncle’s doing, I
must and would have paid him; but these violent young lovers carry every thing their own
way. I shall offer to pay him to-morrow; he
will rant and storm about his love for you, and
there will be an end of the matter.”
He then recollected her embarrassment a
few days before, on his reading Mr. Collins’s
letter; and after laughing at her some time, allowed her at last to go—saying, as she quitted
the room, “If any young men come for Mary or
Kitty, send them in, for I am quite at leisure.”
Elizabeth’s mind was now relieved from a
very heavy weight; and, after half an hour’s
quiet reflection in her own room, she was able
to join the others with tolerable composure.
Every thing was too recent for gaiety, but the
evening passed tranquilly away; there was
no longer any thing material to be dreaded,
and the comfort of ease and familiarity would
come in time.
When her mother went up to her dressingroom at night, she followed her, and made
the important communication. Its effect was
most extraordinary; for on first hearing it,
CHAPTER 59
535
Mrs. Bennet sat quite still, and unable to utter a syllable. Nor was it under many, many
minutes that she could comprehend what she
heard; though not in general backward to
credit what was for the advantage of her family, or that came in the shape of a lover to any
of them. She began at length to recover, to fidget about in her chair, get up, sit down again,
wonder, and bless herself.
“Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think!
dear me! Mr. Darcy! Who would have thought
it! And is it really true? Oh! my sweetest
Lizzy! how rich and how great you will be!
What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages
you will have! Jane’s is nothing to it—nothing
at all. I am so pleased—so happy. Such a
charming man!—so handsome! so tall!—Oh,
my dear Lizzy! pray apologise for my having
disliked him so much before. I hope he will
overlook it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town!
Every thing that is charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh, Lord!
What will become of me. I shall go distracted.”
This was enough to prove that her approbation need not be doubted: and Elizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard only
by herself, soon went away. But before she
had been three minutes in her own room, her
mother followed her.
“My dearest child,” she cried, “I can think
of nothing else! Ten thousand a year, and very
likely more! ’Tis as good as a Lord! And a
special licence. You must and shall be married
by a special licence. But my dearest love, tell
me what dish Mr. Darcy is particularly fond
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PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
of, that I may have it to-morrow.”
This was a sad omen of what her mother’s
behaviour to the gentleman himself might be;
and Elizabeth found that, though in the certain possession of his warmest affection, and
secure of her relations’ consent, there was still
something to be wished for. But the morrow
passed off much better than she expected; for
Mrs. Bennet luckily stood in such awe of her
intended son-in-law that she ventured not to
speak to him, unless it was in her power to offer him any attention, or mark her deference
for his opinion.
Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her
father taking pains to get acquainted with
him; and Mr. Bennet soon assured her that he
was rising every hour in his esteem.
“I admire all my three sons-in-law highly,”
said he. “Wickham, perhaps, is my favourite;
but I think I shall like your husband quite as
well as Jane’s.”
Chapter 60
Elizabeth’s spirits soon rising to playfulness
again, she wanted Mr. Darcy to account for
his having ever fallen in love with her. “How
could you begin?” said she. “I can comprehend
your going on charmingly, when you had once
made a beginning; but what could set you off
in the first place?”
“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the
look, or the words, which laid the foundation.
It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I
knew that I had begun.”
“My beauty you had early withstood, and
as for my manners—my behaviour to you was
at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I
never spoke to you without rather wishing to
give you pain than not. Now be sincere; did
you admire me for my impertinence?”
“For the liveliness of your mind, I did.”
“You may as well call it impertinence at
once. It was very little less. The fact is, that
you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious attention. You were disgusted with
the women who were always speaking, and
looking, and thinking for your approbation
alone. I roused, and interested you, because
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PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
I was so unlike them. Had you not been really amiable, you would have hated me for it;
but in spite of the pains you took to disguise
yourself, your feelings were always noble and
just; and in your heart, you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously courted
you. There—I have saved you the trouble of
accounting for it; and really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly reasonable. To be sure, you knew no actual good of
me—but nobody thinks of that when they fall
in love.”
“Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane while she was ill at Netherfield?”
“Dearest Jane! who could have done less
for her? But make a virtue of it by all means.
My good qualities are under your protection,
and you are to exaggerate them as much as
possible; and, in return, it belongs to me to
find occasions for teasing and quarrelling with
you as often as may be; and I shall begin directly by asking you what made you so unwilling to come to the point at last. What made
you so shy of me, when you first called, and
afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when
you called, did you look as if you did not care
about me?”
“Because you were grave and silent, and
gave me no encouragement.”
“But I was embarrassed.”
“And so was I.”
“You might have talked to me more when
you came to dinner.”
“A man who had felt less, might.”
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539
“How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give, and that I should be so
reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder how
long you would have gone on, if you had been
left to yourself. I wonder when you would
have spoken, if I had not asked you! My resolution of thanking you for your kindness to
Lydia had certainly great effect. Too much, I
am afraid; for what becomes of the moral, if
our comfort springs from a breach of promise?
for I ought not to have mentioned the subject.
This will never do.”
“You need not distress yourself. The moral
will be perfectly fair. Lady Catherine’s unjustifiable endeavours to separate us were the
means of removing all my doubts. I am not
indebted for my present happiness to your eager desire of expressing your gratitude. I was
not in a humour to wait for any opening of
your’s. My aunt’s intelligence had given me
hope, and I was determined at once to know
every thing.”
“Lady Catherine has been of infinite use,
which ought to make her happy, for she loves
to be of use. But tell me, what did you come
down to Netherfield for? Was it merely to ride
to Longbourn and be embarrassed? or had you
intended any more serious consequence?”
“My real purpose was to see you, and to
judge, if I could, whether I might ever hope
to make you love me. My avowed one, or what
I avowed to myself, was to see whether your
sister were still partial to Bingley, and if she
were, to make the confession to him which I
have since made.”
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PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
“Shall you ever have courage to announce
to Lady Catherine what is to befall her?”
“I am more likely to want more time than
courage, Elizabeth. But it ought to done, and
if you will give me a sheet of paper, it shall be
done directly.”
“And if I had not a letter to write myself,
I might sit by you and admire the evenness
of your writing, as another young lady once
did. But I have an aunt, too, who must not be
longer neglected.”
From an unwillingness to confess how
much her intimacy with Mr. Darcy had been
over-rated, Elizabeth had never yet answered
Mrs. Gardiner’s long letter; but now, having
that to communicate which she knew would
be most welcome, she was almost ashamed
to find that her uncle and aunt had already
lost three days of happiness, and immediately
wrote as follows:
“I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to
have done, for your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of particulars; but
to say the truth, I was too cross to
write. You supposed more than really existed. But now suppose as
much as you choose; give a loose to
your fancy, indulge your imagination in every possible flight which
the subject will afford, and unless
you believe me actually married,
you cannot greatly err. You must
write again very soon, and praise
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541
him a great deal more than you did
in your last. I thank you, again and
again, for not going to the Lakes.
How could I be so silly as to wish
it! Your idea of the ponies is delightful. We will go round the Park
every day. I am the happiest creature in the world. Perhaps other
people have said so before, but not
one with such justice. I am happier
even than Jane; she only smiles,
I laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all
the love in the world that he can
spare from me. You are all to come
to Pemberley at Christmas. Yours,
etc.”
Mr. Darcy’s letter to Lady Catherine was in a
different style; and still different from either
was what Mr. Bennet sent to Mr. Collins, in
reply to his last.
“D EAR S IR,
“I must trouble you once more
for congratulations. Elizabeth will
soon be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as you
can. But, if I were you, I would
stand by the nephew. He has more
to give.
“Yours sincerely, etc.”
Miss Bingley’s congratulations to her brother,
on his approaching marriage, were all that
was affectionate and insincere. She wrote
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PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
even to Jane on the occasion, to express her
delight, and repeat all her former professions
of regard. Jane was not deceived, but she was
affected; and though feeling no reliance on
her, could not help writing her a much kinder
answer than she knew was deserved.
The joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar information, was as sincere as
her brother’s in sending it. Four sides of paper were insufficient to contain all her delight,
and all her earnest desire of being loved by her
sister.
Before any answer could arrive from Mr.
Collins, or any congratulations to Elizabeth
from his wife, the Longbourn family heard
that the Collinses were come themselves to
Lucas lodge. The reason of this sudden removal was soon evident. Lady Catherine had
been rendered so exceedingly angry by the
contents of her nephew’s letter, that Charlotte, really rejoicing in the match, was anxious to get away till the storm was blown over.
At such a moment, the arrival of her friend
was a sincere pleasure to Elizabeth, though in
the course of their meetings she must sometimes think the pleasure dearly bought, when
she saw Mr. Darcy exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility of her husband. He
bore it, however, with admirable calmness. He
could even listen to Sir William Lucas, when
he complimented him on carrying away the
brightest jewel of the country, and expressed
his hopes of their all meeting frequently at St.
James’s, with very decent composure. If he did
shrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir William
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543
was out of sight.
Mrs. Phillips’s vulgarity was another, and
perhaps a greater, tax on his forbearance; and
though Mrs. Phillips, as well as her sister,
stood in too much awe of him to speak with
the familiarity which Bingley’s good humour
encouraged, yet, whenever she did speak, she
must be vulgar. Nor was her respect for him,
though it made her more quiet, at all likely
to make her more elegant. Elizabeth did all
she could to shield him from the frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to keep
him to herself, and to those of her family with
whom he might converse without mortification; and though the uncomfortable feelings
arising from all this took from the season of
courtship much of its pleasure, it added to the
hope of the future; and she looked forward
with delight to the time when they should be
removed from society so little pleasing to either, to all the comfort and elegance of their
family party at Pemberley.
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PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
Chapter 61
Happy for all her maternal feelings was the
day on which Mrs. Bennet got rid of her
two most deserving daughters. With what
delighted pride she afterwards visited Mrs.
Bingley, and talked of Mrs. Darcy, may be
guessed. I wish I could say, for the sake
of her family, that the accomplishment of
her earnest desire in the establishment of so
many of her children produced so happy an
effect as to make her a sensible, amiable,
well-informed woman for the rest of her life;
though perhaps it was lucky for her husband,
who might not have relished domestic felicity
in so unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous and invariably silly.
Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection for her drew him oftener from home than any thing else could do.
He delighted in going to Pemberley, especially
when he was least expected.
Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth. So near a vicinity
to her mother and Meryton relations was not
desirable even to his easy temper, or her affectionate heart. The darling wish of his sis-
545
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PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
ters was then gratified; he bought an estate
in a neighbouring county to Derbyshire, and
Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other
source of happiness, were within thirty miles
of each other.
Kitty, to her very material advantage,
spent the chief of her time with her two elder
sisters. In society so superior to what she had
generally known, her improvement was great.
She was not of so ungovernable a temper as
Lydia; and, removed from the influence of Lydia’s example, she became, by proper attention and management, less irritable, less ignorant, and less insipid. From the farther disadvantage of Lydia’s society she was of course
carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wickham frequently invited her to come and stay with her,
with the promise of balls and young men, her
father would never consent to her going.
Mary was the only daughter who remained
at home; and she was necessarily drawn from
the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs. Bennet’s being quite unable to sit alone. Mary was
obliged to mix more with the world, but she
could still moralize over every morning visit;
and as she was no longer mortified by comparisons between her sisters’ beauty and her
own, it was suspected by her father that she
submitted to the change without much reluctance.
As for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution from the marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy
the conviction that Elizabeth must now become acquainted with whatever of his ingrat-
CHAPTER 61
547
itude and falsehood had before been unknown
to her; and in spite of every thing, was not
wholly without hope that Darcy might yet be
prevailed on to make his fortune. The congratulatory letter which Elizabeth received from
Lydia on her marriage, explained to her that,
by his wife at least, if not by himself, such a
hope was cherished. The letter was to this effect:
“M Y DEAR L IZZY,
“I wish you joy. If you love Mr.
Darcy half as well as I do my dear
Wickham, you must be very happy.
It is a great comfort to have you
so rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will think
of us. I am sure Wickham would
like a place at court very much, and
I do not think we shall have quite
money enough to live upon without
some help. Any place would do, of
about three or four hundred a year;
but however, do not speak to Mr.
Darcy about it, if you had rather
not.
“Yours, etc.”
As it happened that Elizabeth had much
rather not, she endeavoured in her answer to
put an end to every entreaty and expectation
of the kind. Such relief, however, as it was in
her power to afford, by the practice of what
might be called economy in her own private
expences, she frequently sent them. It had always been evident to her that such an income
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PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
as theirs, under the direction of two persons
so extravagant in their wants, and heedless of
the future, must be very insufficient to their
support; and whenever they changed their
quarters, either Jane or herself were sure of
being applied to for some little assistance towards discharging their bills. Their manner
of living, even when the restoration of peace
dismissed them to a home, was unsettled in
the extreme. They were always moving from
place to place in quest of a cheap situation,
and always spending more than they ought.
His affection for her soon sunk into indifference; her’s lasted a little longer; and in spite
of her youth and her manners, she retained all
the claims to reputation which her marriage
had given her.
Though Darcy could never receive him at
Pemberley, yet, for Elizabeth’s sake, he assisted him farther in his profession. Lydia
was occasionally a visitor there, when her
husband was gone to enjoy himself in London
or Bath; and with the Bingleys they both of
them frequently staid so long, that even Bingley’s good humour was overcome, and he proceeded so far as to talk of giving them a hint
to be gone.
Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by
Darcy’s marriage; but as she thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she dropt all her resentment; was fonder
than ever of Georgiana, almost as attentive to
Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear
of civility to Elizabeth.
Pemberley was now Georgiana’s home; and
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549
the attachment of the sisters was exactly what
Darcy had hoped to see. They were able
to love each other even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion
in the world of Elizabeth; though at first she
often listened with an astonishment bordering on alarm at her lively, sportive, manner of
talking to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a respect which almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of
open pleasantry. Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen in her way.
By Elizabeth’s instructions, she began to comprehend that a woman may take liberties with
her husband which a brother will not always
allow in a sister more than ten years younger
than himself.
Lady Catherine was extremely indignant
on the marriage of her nephew; and as she
gave way to all the genuine frankness of her
character in her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him language so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth,
that for some time all intercourse was at an
end. But at length, by Elizabeth’s persuasion,
he was prevailed on to overlook the offence,
and seek a reconciliation; and, after a little
farther resistance on the part of his aunt, her
resentment gave way, either to her affection
for him, or her curiosity to see how his wife
conducted herself; and she condescended to
wait on them at Pemberley, in spite of that
pollution which its woods had received, not
merely from the presence of such a mistress,
but the visits of her uncle and aunt from the
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PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
city.
With the Gardiners, they were always on
the most intimate terms. Darcy, as well as
Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were
both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude
towards the persons who, by bringing her into
Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting
them.